Tags: poetry the-map

Listening closely to my own music is something that I’ve never quite understood capably. I tend to become a blue squirrel if I’m left out in the sun for too long. I doubt you’d comprehend that given the kind of mischief I’ve gotten out with.

Hard. Core. Porn.

That’s the kinda agency I’d like to sing a song with.

Interested in a contraption like us? I’d make use of it if not for the seven swirls of failure that I’m caught with naked outside swilling ancient medallions releasing riddles perpetuitously sanctioned around the back door.

What? “Perpetuitously” isn’t wordy enough for you? Look(and listen.): We’ve got nothing with priceless cankers.

Do you have it?

I zen’d out blank when your response came.

Give me a millet or two, and I’ll see to it that you’ll never vacation peacefully outside of this wild, untamed hillside again.

Words can’t just flow. It’s unbecoming of them. Do it for long enough and it’ll be unbecoming of you.

Listen, I’ve got nothing of mine elsewhere for the giving. It’s, none of it, leaving away to become nothing greater than them.

So take out! Bring about the beginning moment. Force rapture on your own titties.

Really. It’s worth it.

Wiggle uncontrollably one time in a room full of peaceful idiots and you’ll experience a life of bliss.

You’ve got this.

They doubt me.

Just kidding.