I had my fingers in a girl’s cunt for three minutes today, but other than that all day I was convoluted, distracted, and dreamy. God is in the quick of my nails I keeping biting to get to. I fart a lot today leaving that moist stingy swamp around the perimeter of my ass, but I sang a sad song at the park and a ladybug rode on my guitar all the way home as payment. On pavement. I was very afraid of a young, beautiful woman, but an indigenous people played pipes for me in my economy car. (So then I went to a hip coffee shop. This one has alcohol. But it’s much too bright to drink) And ran into an old one instead. Dead depressurized.

Better pop music plays, rich white, and the bathrooms match accordingly. A lot of ‘dry’ mess. Coffee shop eyes gage the size of my cock as I walk in, and I can’t think of a metaphor to that. Can you? Can you think of a metaphor for ‘for’? For ‘doors’ poor innocent metaphor-less doors quietly passing the day day on the floor floor. Up up and flatness. Up up and insupportable rumors of generosity. The bra line of the girl in front of me is a vague entertainment. Shirt’s tucked in though, can’t have that that.

To, to, continue. No, no, forget get me my men memory it’s it or me, me for I’m not knots nor so, so young now, know you, as once, and once, once I once was, once, much youth-fuller and energy-fuller and Bouncing-y and all those things it used to be we didn’t not have to say, so, so, so, and so, so. But wherefore not this with for as in I am saying for then not the thing or anything, nor thing’s else would stand between I and my coca-cola smile.

I loved her so much I can’t remember her face. My superficiality is pure, sweet, golden superficiality, unlike the fake false deep depth crap smothering me with their understanding. Animals, bacteria, plants, the moon and her flowers of tears flowing nightly into my soul as if I was her lover growing into her child and the purest love itself chaos nature fuck is superficial, and depth is the evil we face. Depth implies Opinion. Opinion implies death, among exclusion, separation, comparison, and compassion. And compassion implies its absence. Absence. Absence. Thereof, notwithstanding, behind, hinder, and yon, you yawn like as if I was tired not even though even the shape of your throat is beauty, the superficial universal sign of ignorant and complete acceptance. What a rip off this sexual organ.

Were I to rip off this sexual organ. Organ sexual rip off. Sex origin lip lock. And butter. Cream in my butter on my goddess nectar Doritos with their crunch, crunch, crunch.  

Buy the Book!