They put paint on, got burned
since she's all electric.
Sister, fly here.
Take your spotted slug,
seed it on Crete.
Rhythmic sex uncovers a milky picture.
April balanced to create individual music.
The Self, her absurd dirty little sleep, appears free.
Days to damage mad sculptures, electric instruments, her babe-like body.
Give that passion, and manipulate her party needs.
My fear relates how a dirty canvas comes.
To do your representation of art.
How darkly we observed life, we chose a deep laugh, not fire.
They wanted a horny bed of empty mouths.
Respect us - we feel who chooses.
Freely, they timed our faithful performing arms,
lived up to sound.
Hash freedom about death
A fresh life on Crete,
Mother of film wants luscious delusions.
For sure she will.
Henceforth, her husband, an angel,
would hedge our bets.
Letters, like silent patients,
a curious turgid festoon tells the subject's trouble.
Letters, like silent patients,
a curious turgid festoon tells the subject's trouble.
Every pithy surface, does chant
over her angry story.
Think, walk, an idea is stuck.
Think, walk, an idea is stuck.
At least have her.
