Sewer Right-Hand, Lad. A Bloody Chip Off the Old Cock. Left-O.
Iron-clad and commencing cuckholds faster than a jet-powered lizard skintone aircraft(?), the underside of an olivegreen explosion tricked priests into confession. Call yourself what you will (would) because time lapses once every stroke, a long stroke being itself for far too long. The girls keep discussing "the incognative return of incubated bird show minimalism", to which I offered an excursion in vital alligator fashion. A leaf fell and someone called it Fall. Totally fucking deprived of originality to the point of foreverness loosing its meaning, architecture fumbling its debt to gravity, and the non-developing results can yield a warm whiskey-bath of Dafoe-style Christ-meets-someblackgod, even-toned otherness, exaggerating the New petrified-but-present in the Old. What (who) cannot be stressed is the stresser, who interacts and balances statistics that lead to rumbling of nights and evenings combining predominantly. Just try. Just fucking give it a chance. If I said I love you, I'd be owing all the saints and lawyers buckets (because bags are out of season) of my own money and/or internal organs. But trust me—this one is difficult as all GET-THE-FUCK-OUT-BITCH to sit through. Like my life was yours to end, anyways.
--
The girl I want is smart. Very smart. But cannot figure out that I want her.
Fuck the math of life.
--
Minus Drummer. It's just Charc.
Some woman asked us to play at her gig. It seems strange, though.
In the immortal words of Addison, "She wants your guyses nutsacks."
--Dragonslayer Version 2.0
Ex-supermodel and her phantom limb
braces political funtions like coal sucks oxygen
rainbow enthusiasms promote orgasms and murder
nothing that was always nothing is something until it becomes a brief reality
Oh.
OK.
Defy, defy, defy
until the palace of gunners
shoots itself alive.
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