Arriving forlorn with PH to display, well, you know what is broadcast, with these sloppy broads of salt and sand at the beautiful Ocean “beach” and a belch sopping up sudsy wishes to cast a road, coming up 2122 Lower Plain where the e-steamed greeters provide the welfare (I don’t get welfare like these alcoholic fucks w/o works or working…) as I pick up a fork to dine and shrink in my sink, dumping out the carbs and the lards of the chosen dish from The Downstairs Kitchen—that I click the switches on this “computer machine” with or without “Draught” pronounced as in the Draft-KINGS of my betting on the extraneous thoughts to become valid like, show your patients with a pat on the back and front-side, in stride, with my Patient’s ID of choosing to stay alive and with a text-pad I thrive with a throbbing sensation(s) in my body-  and oh to sow thee, weekly, like every day sometimes, BUT WITHOUT WINE, you lushes, you drinkers, read my post about The Thinker from years ago on my jeffreymarquis.com don’t you know?

With my writing for Show, but no- I’m refusing to describe the internal intestines of not a teen, no longer a teen, my Justine Aragona—she is The Queen—with my reading of The Qur’an weeks ago and leaving off at “We have commanded people to be good to their parents!”

HI MOM AND DAD ($$,$$$,$$$)!
HI AUNT DONNA DONOHUE (I LOVE YOU)!