WHAT'S TO SHRIEK BACK MISTER
Say gentle redress of logic, over that
necessity on a drip-feed pinched
to make a stand
still kept from this pudding gentle breeze-block to noted
jaw valiantly at the house
edge stuck out, shattered in
to arraigned sub-eye semi-tonguecase perfection from
which a smile for
not every day creeps / sags out back
to the earth ware, back
hand to the teeth scrubbed over in a fix of syntax and prank cowshit,
naive as a leaf
from intra-goose com
punction brats electro-manual stripped of its honeyless
recourse to intro banter, now
choke out, less dazed on her Tunisian
Motorway or its equivalent so saddeningly avail makes
really what the hell
ever masque before
you that you wish that you pray in, in a flash it's there, there is no
fat chance quiplessly to opt
out, you can stuff your face
onto hers and fail to scowl and the drapes flit
either side unseen, under
a stacked crate of all-out watt thunder and cackishly screeched
out fondness, they will not give up their obscurity, not for ten
seconds and counting break
neck speed at near zero alliance to
life spread like a goat's backside's war of pretend illogic.
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