she has worned

she has worned her honour


shes worned the honour wondered the worn of honed honours bearing on the fort the fortissimo of going and treasuring . what spunk's shadow forges her baying cant field the honour of her second. Seconded by river and beds or war's double-player she phone speak from her head had, its orient fuzz not a peeler of cabinet, but lent and its ever-steady truth. Call of the perfect pluperfect, laced as glooms and eighteeth century castles. Something about not using place, as Gothic cathedrals sense, or saunters a catheter body damped out on clothes-lines hung drapery eternity's cutting matrix. Orpheus hold the whale Orpheus can't back a sheet of paper in her eyes, her sexing not a bite, but a becoming of respects, molecule to her trove. This'll be sick but love's boom biting grooves in her harem. O shitty bordello of crappy meals and lunch time with a cigarette, big buttocks, buttery buttocks chunked out by cave like lichen and rearward pants to tally the overture of rain. Excuse this essex of incensing lathering the torture of seated pants and other pillows to frighten your face, by a kingsize sister.

Love's stretching sister's done the dunes, heralded the deed, seized the land.