Why have the qualms of my lost barber, whose stolen skin made eager prancing on the mince of hopheads. This is not the choking of gaunt horses that flail onto the skull of my sweetest bizarre. Lovely damnation pecking on the faded tattoos of your late night adolescence purge, the petty a most intrepid affair. It commands dramatic somatic intention dementia dailies serpentine notion with diseased pirates groping the last punk-rock-girl right out of town. Plagued guardian shakes the loose tooth beggarly on common tattered trauma. Pounding through the achy market square on a devil’s promenade boogie in the dreamers that lay soiled under the antique nook. These are not your dwellings. These will not be your homes from homes. These are not your salad days. Stalked on stagnant waters put down the fires malignant grooves and to release out from the mushroom’d stratums copious corruption spawn newest memory. They have killed the sweet Ohio with curses and a leaf blower.
