Writing makes my mind fly sometimes. Why ask why, try a valentine’s day tribute to brute force ‘a bit moresos.’ Radiohead takes the edge of my craving for shaving. I can’t even grow a beard, so it matters not. Hot to trot bikini cladden babes do the dew when my boner brews. Who’s on the news? Noone fun, that’s for sure. What really allures me is my mind melt when listening to tunes. Yodel-eh-ei-oo. Cartoons do it too. You can have some it you’d like, just try not to spill. Wait, who the fuck am I to offer advice. my spelling has been spilling since I filled my tank with dank. Tis a shame I can’t wrap my fingers around the stuff at the moment. But I can pretend. Lend me an ear and I’ll try not to ring out with fumes. Blooming doom helps me intrude on the youth squandered diet drinks. Me thinks it’s a skating rink of masturbating mustard seeds. Those are delightful when applied to a sandwich situation. The hand rich in imitation helps identify the posing posse. But what is a poser other than a nose that’s just too damn close to the prose rose. Flowers sometimes feel like a dry wine that just can’t quite liquefy. I’m sure it’ll be right around the corner. I’ve been here afore. Your map must be musty with dust and dis, dis is the shit that the kardinal official writ. Just get a ripped lip and you’ll know how the glory goes. Another yin by yann helps my belt loosen it’s lingo. When did you go to the rows of yes? It can be confusing, no? plenty of dishes to eat from, but that’s not my concern. It’s more the floor filled with jello pudding pop. Not a fan of the pop. Unless you consider amy’s house of wine pop. Which I surely hope not. I’d say it’s more of a meld between funk, soul, and the whole kit ‘n caboodle. And my kit has oodles of caboodles. Hahaha I’m just thinking of my kit-kat bar. A lava rock took a look at my hand this morn and I had to adorn an array of swear words that bared something more than whore. Can you take a look at it please? Try not to squeeze out my soul. You’ll be in for a world of weirdness then. Well, that would only be true if a soul were strapped to the bowl of my wool. If you don’t dig that jig, I apologize for the tails of fishy persons.