there is a god to sort through the phony confessions; flowers of masochism at the end of every accusation that flagellates from your soul to mine. i cloister inside you; pure as an eternal fart, embarking on the stimulus of motion. i eat sacred molecules from the language of parrots until my godhoods besmirch a yonder truth.
We enjoyed six poisons out of a circle of prisms boiled at the stimulus; spoken by simplex near a mirror of lines carried at the moan. spectra project the machination of a dignitary. forever characterizing the power of a concrete throat wedged them far from the yawns of demons emulsified at the wind.
The way heads drop through our puddles. Raining in enjoyable detriments. Through sobered shocks, where offers bought their coffins. How ultimate! Madam Mary I see you are teeming with hell. Usurping to be rained. Which eats you well.
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