The Tattoo I Didn’t GetPhil Crippen
trapped in a blizzard of mink-clad nymphs drowsy with donor fatigue in the land of edward scissorhands where the infomercial is king as instinctive as a vine in the blue marble organism which doesn’t allow the other— the sea or the shore? “this is me,” says she, saying ‘good-bye’ and the door becomes murky and I’ve seen this murk before is anyone asking questions anymore? while in this détente you give me a “pre-emptive strike” so how are we supposed to be a six-legged couple anyway? right now, I’m going to go into town and rape some grand pianos intention is one thing effect is another but nobody’s name goes on the small of my back!
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