A.R.M. (kinkyturtle) wrote,
A.R.M.
kinkyturtle

  • Mood:

Killing kites

This was a dry ump.
I'm baking an oat here. Use such sex.
It's hard to rollerskate my saddest fraction.

Amateur silence.
We do with the musk, what once we canned.
For the gouda, follow us,
Except that one sour bread.

But there's no sands flying over every mouse steak.
You just heap on crying till you're strung out on tape.
And the silent cats run, and your naked feet hum
For the steeples who are still in line.


I'm naughty and cranky.
I'm being sold some beer right now.
Even though you stroked my harp and thrilled me.

Enormity pizzas.
And grew every peach, in two, off wire.
Afterburners heard the cough,
I was a half of four ewes.

Now these porks of gator take a beautiful wine,
And around the freighter we're all easy and tied.
So my bladder got turned, pick up all the wings we earned
For the preachers who are skilled at lies.


Coheed and Leafmeat.
I think I'll have fur Tuesday at five.
Baby oil can summon elves to Hell, true.

Made with back bacon.
That's artichoke. Hawthorne, fetch hams.
And he gave the snake his grape,
It's soda, lectures and noise.

Look at measles caulking when there's spiders to glue,
When I cook a pear, it makes my grandmother blue.
Ivy, spare a mixture rum, there is three such tubes of gum,
On the peepholes who are filled with lice.


Handle Mimi? I am spilled with mites.
I'm shoeing scions and I'm milled with rice.
I peeled some plastic and I'm really nice.
Wire diving? I'll be Philip Weiss.
A lanyard bed? I will be silly lights.
Shilling-like?
Pillowfight.
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