Dec 22, 2017
State Myth
Inside I swing a bat using the tangled muscles of a bull. The strained rampage comes when there is a joining of silk, Losing touch, and vintage sand stranded underneath. An embrace of leather, skinned, tanned, plentiful, stinging. Farbeit for the fox and the firework to frolic in obvious range. Luteous is the taste of the beach smiling under sunglasses. Expect, again, expect, and inspect the towel, striped. See the rings, necklace, controlled braids, and the pure hush. Epileptic absence is on my end, I say in my journals. The forbearance of puce on marble lays its claim. There is no suppressant for desire at hand. Short term wins out, soliloquy ensues. I taste her completely, accurately. Sweet to kill.