versions_ awake

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.

Dont bellow yer voice inmy eye, she wisp of fair . On her arm rested . Reposed her winking heart to his. Oh sweet!


there are

There are many workshop shopping where Mona habitates. Digging in her digs. Logement des fou. Sombre precuser to her rent. Ghosted by the hill top maze. its coughing desing. Not dasein to her pent up fancy.


Legend has it she had many covering to her plateau of bodying regression to her rescinded
feel.if not was there another spot for her to go bog? of this typewriter she's heard of
clinic and critical but her amaze was a gift of not paying attention the
inessential .


Pride of campd de self

Fictioneering Mona'spride of lions her camp de bivouac self, not kerouac to her candering self.Or subject pas a pas melding the triune feeling to her tophat bowtie lady of these manuscript feet you are none the fretted no work of scrolling tires. O comenow, repeals Jill her shamble shake mummy to her occident oils. Infantile box and unguent gasping . Privateering more like it, it whisks the hi-di-ho-down rathering its smith to forward down the den.

Mona skits oranges twisting lathes her boom-glow row. Or other feathering wilted socks across caverns of deputed denims, socks for her feet, a derby for her brain head.

Fanny, don't bum my tits, you braggart! Infantile trains and derricks to ramshackle yer hoists, infernal conates sisphyean swish anatomical rapscallions. English is her e_name and love's biting ass her tame ruby-shipping rump. Hunkers to slaver over were the boys pantalons. Not mister nymph and her eleven by forted hexameters.

Puf and cuff the pill do they doat, hillyboat to her skivvies. Around this hall the forty elders of sciene and privy sat. Thought smacked their head, as any dagwood rainbow might if she were the thought that buried the tomb. Amn't we goin to the wood, habit queried. Perish me timbers, by the Lord Christ we'll have the living of you yet, you tart of the fartbenders and rule crackers. Come ye faithful dossies yer ragwood slacking clowning days , a bosom for any failing nail, you'll have. Flaunt yourself before me, will you? Crab-wise my little nutrient buckle.
Impetto Impetto private caretaker's tiniest thingamajig. C_ this tongue's inscribed on your ass. Jill hushy to her hussy willingness! shush yer scandalous mouth of diamonds . A jocund tart was better than none. A sandalous lesbic speech armed with plates, cups, upward standing houris. Low buttocked high buttocked sheer weighted the swayed hipping of her enjoinment. Restart camp once more, myrtles and Agamenonon. Nononon. Yes yes yes Come all me triolets, triplets to your wrong

treble clef to this fictionsofdeleuzeandguattari