Grounded, pounded and sanded. Demanded for a new start. Restart the chords and whores for a more implorable faction of reality we see. To the teething knuckling unbuckling of ego we go. To the depths of french girls and twirls of the hair too rare to sear the skin off a hot car wax detail. Too frail to sail the winds of a once whole regime impending doom too soon to spoon her or sooner doom tour.
Resting, just resting in the nest egg of being. Teething and coupling the tongue touching orgiastic plastic redacted impact bond. Soggy froggy downpours of implorable emotion unbuttons the signs of a collapsing relapsing fate.
Snap back her waist into a tasting of sweet and sour power hour. Let her boot crack my jaw like the sawing of a plank for sea. Let me be her. Let me see her. Oft too demanded and restrained in the rains of the dirty south mouth dip spit shit fit. Course my being to seeing her unburdening the words at sea for a listless Christmas wishlist. This Christmas let the bitch fits be, and come see me being set free. In that wind that once bonded our souls whole now rearing the searing stool coffin of often fought about wars I implore you....
I simply implore you.
Further more this doggy style breakfast gallop I meet with meat in my teeth is crumbling to the sweet scents of unbent trauma. Fauna and rainforests weep with insensitivity to the cavity in my teeth of wheat creeps.
A page for her, a page for her, another page for the other one over there I dare myself to split the seams of art and fart out new combusting factions of free speaking redeeming qualities of life too frail upon redaction of actionable words to shout about.
This shout lost to another stout I weep magnanimous mountainous fountains of love for those weak in the teeth. Impending a deep socket, long lost forlorn popped locket, holding a picture of the girl I love.
Her, her, her...
Just repeating like the seating of an auditorium I sing on for those lost and alone too stoned I cry for another chance at love. To shove my Russian meat pickle into that hungry roast beef sandwich of a witch.
Crumbling, fumbling, reaching for a lighter the tighter tongue did speak. Wept, swept, and unbent the fractions of the towers falling into listless fountains of love, becomes yet another unbent and broken stolen chalice that once held my soul.
Gone, broken, stolen the swollen fat belly of we I stumble back home to a home that will never be home again. My friend this sad fate tasting the cakes and re-raking the fates of the dearly departed into smarter and smarter affidavits of criminal mischief. Hang the cake and sweeten up the broken stolen memories with sweet stifling sign speak.
Once again I implore you.
To weep upon that seat of a once whole heartbeat. To shiver in the heat of a highly redacted truth we are sold on a daily. May we, have this last dance, for France, for home. For the worn glass slipper.
