I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the future.
Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed.
A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure.
I would measure the success of a night by the way by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns that
nestled the P.A.
Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which dazzled and
would
whore
violet
splinters
sleepy
skirt
skipping
under
seize
success
scroll
scars
scalp
ready
plenty
spared
pleasure
peacefully
ornamental
nights
dazzled
netting
crazy
walls
craved
child
everybody
measure
spoiled
covering
white
stage
sewed
absolutely
beneath
comanche
lying
caressed
worship
amount
helen
exude
surprise
american
desire
archway
artist
fucked
green
flashed
circles
night
could
cropped
guilt
stations
knees
heart
inside
columns
itself
which
moslem
myself
layers
nerves
belly
lettuce
exquisite
narrow
lights
future
metallic
ancient
nestled
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