puddle mop my own

Agree to dispense with the pretense-a shaky stance stilted above swirling black of unknowing exactly, what terror befall the clumsy and netless. Sun shone too bright, enough to be reproached-approaching terminal fallout spilled sidewalks, enough to prove you’re no pussy, especially to your boss, that closet cock sucker so unhappy he can only rail his spray-tan girl from inside the paper bag he forces the whole room to wear during group sessions running the bill up to the hundreds per minute including the concessions of course, what’s a good, scientifically monitored orgy without a few dime a dozen hot dogs to set the mood, strange, no mustard, only mayo for these linking over celibacy celebrations broadening the gape to include the sacred egg-based life we deny, claiming sprems our through thorough truth but though again favoring youth to wisdom–a mistake not quite as old as time but rewritten for sundials nearing midnight, the crux of existence is soon to come between the absurdist grin and the popping vein atop the existentialist’s brow before she commands an unhealthy holy hell fire shit she mistakes for afterbirth and even names it but before the emotional impact of such a folly sets in, the bruises rise up declaring the unions of platelets’ catastrophic wholly unheroic soon forgotten fraternal suicide stopping the sweeping release of the middle classroom from their desks, all conveniently stacked, to withstand a separate but equal terror threat–each given secretly, though a few selected for collaborative action, an entire weeks worth of knees to wobble, shake or even knock as their parents’ permission slips state stay either unfilled or lost beyond human reach in the crevices of the nearest backpack stitched together with that common cord whispering on flappy wretched tongues behind shoelaces tightened, creative control


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