soulmammoth
the puddle of my accident was a biff. a hoax. a wry job done gone shit. I resort to humility and give my day it's daily bread. rye. skimmed my hope off the top for some easy way to swallow the embarassment. how does one consol ?
I pick my nose as often as you pick lillies for moi. Le foi, les poisosns, le petit pois. My soggy pomegranate heart teases you with pickle breath. the undulating perfunctory beat of the 5 hz gaia beat, as is my soggy heart beat. Yet, you stare, dumbfounded, irksome, libations adrip... what happened to the je ne sais q'oui, the imparted glance of who-done-it. Oh, the gregarioius knuckleheaded bathroom break, whilst I still yearn for your passing. Yes, I washed my hands. and the Soap in the museum bathroom smells like warm apple croissants. Just another Fronch reference for the sake of romance. and I don't have an apple under my arm to give you in due time, such as Napolean nostalgicly sniffed for his imparted lovers. But we are not lovers. illness lovesickness. lillith faire. tilted chins, limp bisguits, sans lillies from you. Oh my soggy pomegranate silly hearted love sickness.
I put some artichoke color on the head of a pin and smeared the wallpaper, tracing the heart of a mosquito. My own heart collapsed under the pressure. I wonton soup scoffed at the pardoning hiccup of the mouse at my feet.
writing since 2010 · 4 entries · 3 days shown up
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heartsoggybeatartichokecolorheadpinsmearedwallpapertracingmosquitocollapsedpressurewontonsoupscoffed