Touch that taste … please … this easiness in me
Superstitious… just might be a motherfucking

Has my remote-controlled mind finally found the time to find it way too simple

Over easy.

I cannot always be waiting upon these readers for ever, playing the smartest fool in the whole small world

The girls might find it too hard to handle sometimes but I wouldn’t have the position any other manner of fact to bend and lend their French derriere toward beautifully estranged fiction

Honestly promiscuous whilst I touch that forbidden taste.

There’s a million dollars in this invisible bank of mind, supposedly so you do know it because I sure as shit don’t… yet I may just tend to myself and do.


Am I just making up the deafening, deadening difference. Each to their own prone to til the fiction becomes derelict ammunition – too much rhyme that is stuck in the past, present, this is no fucking present at all. Let alone a literary future! But I love it more than anyone else can ever let themselves catch up and fathom – phantom – to imagine. I’m a million miles behind and too many million dollar dimes ahead. Dimes will never make literary sense again.

Yet money aside, my mind is as pristine as every single one of our Christine’s. See you on the other side sweet people, where misshapen geniuses make less than better sense of them.selves again.

Sensational sellout –
Wherein my words are about as beautifully useless as anything you will ever read in
Posthumous history – simply a stream of contagious conscience, sedating, waiting for these reading people to catch that unspeakable

You think that I asked for this subtle easiness!? I am the simplest man in the world just drunk upon upside down pearls with a literary place to call me

Has a place in my beat-again heart which will start from the beginning one more time, please, make it oh so very so beneficially easy on me.

For I was insistently listening whilst the rest of them were

Desirably their own make-believe world of ours.

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