Get a hit, hot rod. Next years pop stars passing out with cross eyes and scarred wrists in a blinking nod, throwing a passing wave, born on the back of luxury that fists & pennies can save, cysts on the social page the pleasure that they dutifully crave, twists and embitters the sage, leading stark raven on the streets, appealing to reason to find another fix, something that gleams and glitters, something that sticks. quick lips lick, as a city-slick saunters but grubby hands stand thick in pockets that wallop-on, gormless, hardly a case to be won, hardly a cause worth the sum, a day drunk, night nurse, bastard and son, bursting pursues for half baked platinum acursed and curses adrift in the afternoon sun.
Posted on: Sun, 23 Mar 2014 18:29:41 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015