Thursday, September 23, 2010

terror ski

fuckin' dead, man. real fish squeel. fish drowning, too much hop. skip down the broad street drunk as a cow on uncle tom's white piss. i'm calling myself to the bed full of bugs, the bed with the tv sprung on high and lingering 3 feet below the bed. ain't no puzzle here, all taste. can your monkey sing to your dog? play the keys in a chicago night hall all zipped up on charlie and whiskey. talent. straight talent, no evolution needed. applaud.

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