Paul my Saint John’s Class President and Rest In Peace Wes!

Come along, come on, sing-ing a whatever kind of song, to the end, to bodily-suspend that pair of black under-waerz, taken on soon, so nothing else to ease my curiosity of what but the go-getter’s bowling-ball in that rubber rubbing gutter thrown to trash of one’s one own—my $BONE profitable and able to once have seen horses here—that apparently Paul (another Paul, here working at “Averte”) he owns one on his land, near to me here—far from my real “HOME” in Charlton, MA with Mum ’n’ Pops wearing summertime flip-flops like a decidedly pleasant mocking of my mood—when it comes to audacity and Allah-cracity it’s the way I now am only by choice of fingers’ voice to hoist up the Gallows when the nig-nogs hide behind the color of Melanin—their nighttime mischeif- police see their shadows, on these front-door cameras being on Fox News, only, that means no other of Chanel’s channels to be perused—my dialect… my intellect… I call home with 1-800-COLLECT standing upright cool and calm, with minty Chap-Stick on—always, it’s addictive I hear—that kissable “BALM” with no Funky Effing bombs, and being dropped from what but the B-52’s loving the smoked inhalations of a SMACK love smacking that booty of my #1 honey bunny with a lot of money, the Queen of mine, has had her all, has been with Allah of Allah’s owning the Solar System—I said “Goodbye planet Earth”—something about her anus of hers—YOUR ANUS—Uranus—until sincere sunshine shone through the window, that I thankfully made it back from Destination: “God” with a pelvic piece’s prodding that had me nodding, her perfectly still and silent, with not a muscle moved—is she asleep???

Space Mountain

Anyways to the T’s & to the A’s I was so inclined with a could-do achievement without bereavement, that I mean you and future partner’s no harm, reaching out from the Universe with my Disabled and Handicapped arm—feeling that B-cups ‘o’ Daisy—there’s nothing wrong with and without you, who… or ME! that’s merely me and able to see the light’em up at the end of the proverbial “Tunnel” of once $TUBBIES—now erased and did I invest in that with love for a Tidy-Gunk “Deposit” at the deposition of Mister and Misses Derek LANGLOIS, that he made a choice to sick’em Kimmy with the translucity of being about to able my hearing, so endearing, hearing voices, “he made a choic-es” of preferring VEGGIE pecans over anyone “Trans” and/or chocolate—with exception of the African-American “Ernest” with the Dodge SRT-4 of my joining forces with my Mom and Dad—so unto Challenging I became of a “channeling” to Chandler Gardens of my fabulous destination (a quick walk to the Gym) like a Vacation of living alone, the L-shaped sofa and a large and larger desk with a designer tidy chair, when my 52” TV was stolen—I pulled out my hair—but, only, in order to resemble the bald smoker who stole that $1000 TV from my apartment at C.G. when I listened to “Lustral- Everytime” earlier that has the most loving and logical, awaiting a smooch and tentacle tongue—Tantric—that’ll do the trick of a time I’m due for—without wine—whither my lack to subdue a whimsical riding of Glad Tidings to have step-sis suck this Delirious tooth-less ’n’ TITE way to wonder what’s first as per an avenue of a nekkid girl, to view, when my writing has become Askewed with trashy “GOT HER” junk in the swerving vehicle, HICCUP, so don’t drive drunk you inconsiderate asshole, you punk!

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