You reader have deep lines between your brows?

This shit has never been the sixties.
Dare to nod your head at a child,
he has only known your secret darkest.
I even hope you see me,
all heaven’s pounds of sitting.
That I love a reader for.
My cock wants to kiss your face,
the one you patter on.
Being secretly yes secretly fatter.
Your idols were not different.
They’d hate you, you cunt, for guessing.
Sit, silly bastard, now I’ll chastise:
oh the oh and beauty quit,
oh I killed my ego for yours,
you dumb reader, I got your doubts
that kind of dies if only kindly.
I see you. Shotgun to a stranger
and I see you still. Yes, you.
You. You aren’t blonde. I am one eyed.
Three men tried to murder a boy’s face
on a dark pavement and my love said
I see you, I see you.
I know I scare you, you simple sugar.
Evil simple cup of it.
My organ in the skullcap has scoffed
for its own simplifying.
It will be small or else I greet God.
Thank you: now sit or scurry.
Guess what as you shit, I am tactics.
Put the phalanges there.
I gave away my doubt in the projects.
If I am quiet I am all knowing
like a God shorted armed and ignorant.
Fine then, deluded, a god would tell similar.
They were oak chairs staring as a live
sweet old cave liver pure of vitamins.
I still see you.
Yes, have your yen and your wife.
I screw my face in as every single one.
I put my kneecap down her mouth
if you have a husband instead
and his will stick in a sonnet.
I grope and guarantee.
I’ll be dead until a looker looks.
Do so, stranger, I’ll do nothing
but have you watch and wait ten years.
Now, be a many-faced cunt, and dare to lie.

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~ by Jeremy on June 12, 2011.

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