Monday, September 28, 2009


Pigeon Shit Breakfast

Call me Minnehaha but last week we had everything and the girl. Instant tease and oatmeal lost their embedded intelligence due to your looped mouth backtalk everyone can't seem to get enough of .
At this
intersection, I go left with no right angles to corner my lips. Thyroid explosions happen every time you bat your instigative eye balls. There's no sex in your violence or ghosts in your fridge. Why couldn't' you tell me the
point I'm
trying to make broke under your ten speed and forgotten French? Was it that hardly integrated into your daily regiment to pull and push some auxiliary strings so my ankle could possibly twist less? The drunk fly on my tongue and callused clean palms last night dominated rarely tanned leather while all you ate was canned spelling soup that tasted
not ok.

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