and from this story from you i reach along the soiled limbs and taste something ever so richer and deeper, that of the pan and the beauty of the pain and loss of something more profound, well a moment to remove myself from the goad forsaken profundity. When i ask the bald British men if they need help getting somewhere they cower in fear, and reply they know. They make me laugh, and i urge them to stick a weiner in their behind! And we all laugh, over a cup of tea.
To return, I say this…
It is with great pleasure for me to announce that I have found a source rich in linguistic flavour and melodic symphonies for I feel I am blessed with these favour. But sullenly cursed at the same time, for I have not found my means of taming them. They are wild and little domestic. And love I do. But harder to swallow.
why can i be hating myself one moment?
why can i see the beauty in a throw hanging to dry?
why do i feel so hard some times i weep with poetry and music?
why do i feel so hard some times i weep with shame and loathing?
why do i feel so aloof from my corporal self?
why do i stink so hard?