lemon spaghetti

You bring meaning to my life. I've been meaning to get back to you on that. It's too hot most of the time. Something every day.

Stomach hurt stem mesmerist's remorseful loofa healing melt lemon favourite spaghetti lake. Stomach hurt stem mesmerist's seminal leper pearl rolling over fork roaming charged den flinch. Melt lemon spaghetti sanguine or all coffee walking sauce polls with hoop shoal cloaca cocoa rodent. Cokebots and the disease that loves them.

You're my inspiration. You're the wings atop my wind. You're so goddamned graceful with your hurt. You're hurt smug without pardon when all they really wanted was wifi.

Let's talk about tabbed browsing for awhile, and awareness of documents that no-one's touching with the hands, or are the eyes a way of touching? Are the eyes a way of touching without ruffled? When I pick up a book or I pick up a towel or I pick up a gun or I pick up a broken letter found lying down crying, it changes somehow, no? I can at least change its location; I can change its course. You might want to try a stronger grain.

But if I just look am I changing it? Am I changing it at all? Am I changing it just for me? And who are you?

Stomach hurling stream measurement of remorseful loaves healing melts. Lemon famished spaghetti lake. I see the meaning in my life, now. You're atop my mind, so fucking graceful. I slide my hands over your breasts.


http://www.lewislacook.org/xanaxpop/


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No More Movements…

Lewis LaCook –>Poet-Programmer|||http://lewislacook.corporatepa.com/|||


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