whether pattern change yet to be scene

Fried eye, straight fines, crimes just below driving range, but not white enough to pry when the sunset’s limited to a predawn light show snubbed for the foreverth year now as Awards Season draws closed, blind to their mistakes.
It’ll be curtains for the judged this year, full frontail and matching the carpet, dust mites and all.
Take a chance – get away – fly to isolated winter landslides wandering wider whiter while whining: fuck god no why, holy burning snakeoil christ, Madre Muerta enmeshed in emasculation spray, daddy dangerous breath heavy always wearing inflammatory wigs and screaming,
“Taxing tarnation and matching bushwhacked critterskin tight toupees!”
Pissrats dunk sorrows spoiled in pity milk everflowing, taunt the mirror scraping the bottom of the empty pool, still couldn’t swim out of even without lessens aburdening your bludgeonous gastral projections.

wet grass crab smell

cherry picking uncle fucker,
ulcer cow drippy tit,
cowl credible edible delight,
despite the night out,
insider bushwick fantasm screech,
throttle dangerous choke repeat,
savage strains stumble stairwell,
fumble tumble topside wet,
inheritance fraught beckon away,
plaster cast master class,
fateful envy monumental fascination,
fixate refrigerate lapping substance,
way finds you when,
backhand restoration corroborate decimate,
organize style wisdom none,
layman learns unheard terms