Brink MeHeidi Lynn Staples
arm in the bed, though, war. and some wetness. in the sheet, the little agog the one eye. ate airily, the gall and war sings. did in some monstrous informant of you, in the ball's curve. and there was wine bidding passage and the prodding. every weight true fond bone. fond obalisque milk and roam, rock harp rock barb in the red. you sweat fond the salt has seizure. in the muddle of the tunic where love is, the toys lay roughly. they sway they're red. now one has a comment, a comma, a coma, we saw it coming, sudden as an ohm, an oh, a ho-ho-ho, a 'ho, ahoy, ahem. in the yelling where love is, you stay you're expired (hung) and that now dawn calms it's here because, as you say, I am starry raucous and shouldn't digress so, as if you hadn't cost enough the thirst's hymen some mammary of happiness, the hows having become discombobulated. you are all, night reel, and the hows within the hows whose hounds our high let lust's array. we meet in these audible palaces we look to fondle audible to behold beheld that too and that to reach water -- we sing the other way hooked on a hard ape's catastrophe.
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