We the Urbane... Whether Im under the frost, or blooming at the end of the garden where time slept, the hour is horribly gaudy. The earth bleeds copious amounts to you. I am the warm blush of Sinceritys medicine. These lips bruised under truth. Am I here at the table of someone? Some thing? I bet the plates served here remain in the language of the paradox that you offered me. No. Tomorrow is infinitely more useful than television, but sour as lemonade. Well, til just now, allowing commenters to reply directly to the warm hand from above as it asks “How shall I dance?” Lets sully your page. Teach its tombstone how to speaking coyly of leaves. A substance light on that flat, remote circle. I am I always wholly green. I am the pure hunger of being awake. Lets just broadcast a few re-runs. With the ace of my doom I will subsume you... Let me feel your mouth on mine. I want the rush of you, I want to kick the tender roots of your head. Then be made your own to command until there are no wrists left to handcuff... The submission is what blows this fire escape up one ticking time bomb at a time. We dive out the window and into the bay and lap up the waves to taste her deep throat. We were never simple, not even when the boom dipped into view to prove it was all show, or when I tried to use up all the floodwater to wash away that damned spot where you splattered my blood on Normandy Beach, but I didnt do it. Every good start has a box-office middle but the end is a much overlooked art. So when in doubt, use our hubris as water cannons to blast me away after I sink my canines into you. I always knew Id end by drowning in you. Ill be strong, and shut the eyes that once gazed on our world as an endless series of twilights. The truth was always Caesar at a meeting in a hall next to Pompeys Theatre - dead on arrival.
Posted on: Wed, 30 Apr 2014 23:09:52 +0000