A triangular torso, with small red head above bloated shoulders. And manic, misfiring, welterweight hair. Wis-ping near the vibrating chair. All shivers and sizably sodomised right by, a gargantuan man machine – if only he had have walked alone on his own that last night put upon fire. Instead of with a crowd of crawling pretenders

The skeletal structure is off by the softness of a thousand degree heat furnace which fetches for the shape of his misshapen face – uneasy sight, up all night, of the once upon a viciously impressive wild-child

Who knew no real reasoning, but for his own skin ‘n’ bones. We repeat – who knew no real reasoning, but for his own skin ‘n’ bones

And the windswept region of a painter’s painterly brush, and its attention to attentive detail, forever cradled by the aforementioned sting in the killing heat – he whispers, leans in and suggestively says it, that the silver-lining will only ever get to be, playfully posthumous

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