melodramas from the girlie reviews and strip joints and war time brothels and junk halls mystified the sun, with dense squalor, raging rapturous with desire and the tirless wheel of mooning for richies

adoration glories crash and flirt flirt and crash temptations toss to unharsh the sun tunneling druid with scalding hatred.

oh dont say things like that. honesty verses verse — procustes your bed it calls for me wanna flirt?

invocation in backwards bending decurvature of saftey for the saving mucky graces, lust for trust for cosmic californication or bust – grave stinky blowout – indefensible – ruthless and lush.

moons got another Loon over here, Charlie, screaming for help.

Haute le Couer whose as the world turns buckles under stubbornly contaminated vacuum of language –

whose whores risk “everything” to merges with wonder wall (fucking alchemy)

and like a hapless vagrant for your hapless rogue snot, de Loveleye, charges again and again the battle with my death.

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