Mona's wordpad apartment deluxe bourgeois style unrelated objets d'art
subjet d'art Mona's royal buttocks of beauty _ they speak to me _ saying to me in a rushed aside
what pleasant hill is that green Jerusalem? Mona function'd fictional_ the
queen's (queen? queen high heeled in the boisdeboulogne) (queen toreface ripped off god save the queensheaint
ahuman being) (queen: queen bee) (queen: her majesty) (queen: someone that oprime les autres) message "of peace"
to the world stage of world news were always her best play __ winter sans snow was not a place to campaign_. She has goosed the natal morninn g of her fat word her plight's stick yer butt sans frais down wheels and puns. Busted by statue and gape, she's creme de menthe on the refeted phrase. St. Fatality has accidents in her pant(ies) knows her cock wont be worn backward. A secret gizmo to her job won't let her play foxes and bears. A fox was sniffing around the fields between two underpasses as they drove the night heading into the finite mix mastering of city. NO heading into the infinite jangle . No, infinite wrangle. No, screw this! She whirls her skates abound, skateboard skirted she assfitted to the sun, her boy's best butt judged on, she's hearing praise and hoorays hoorays. Is it a man appearing at her door, as she spun the doxy wheels her funning way, funnies on the kitchen table where the murderer sat, she's georgics to her baffled fey not worked over by wrought fingering exercised by haunted gable and trouble eave hearing everywhich way kind of rent. Off to her rented sphix she goes hidden in a buttoks secret to the good god universe.
A voice bellowed out of the belly One can only hope the universe'll blow up sooner than later. An apocalyptic thought twisted by vased flower bedding and not rivered thighs. Hmmm do you think writing in the first person is a waste of time? Yes, it is because cause cause first person is fiction and only appears otherwise. Fiction of first self is most self as I who says I is dead and yet who take its serious is deader than dead dead dead . Dear dead I dont write back yer dumbarse plays on empyrean emotion fixture who am i shite. what is that shit. Shit to I. Shit to the I.
versioning and miniversioning its temples played by curl. Weird oasis of culvert den. Waked up by spill. Word of bodyinside the hugged cannot say. Its hovered . By platiscene rented faded design gowns of pearl. Heap of oils. Powder and perfume. this deluxe. Car ferried the weight. her gyrescope and other quested field not quite spoiled. She wave particle. Huffed by molecule necklaced by molecule tingle. Her rampant paws. Lioning the queen of self. The tall tired tiger self. Of will and power. Her gowning bay'd. Like any dog water. A machine for paying curling beach houses. A song surf lift the crave .
Shit to the eye. Long live the ear of its pulling.
_______
Variant to this fiction found at fiction two.
