Saturday

bent on fell



How would Jill know a kiln from a fos'cle ? she's dependent on seas for water... watering her girth along the waterways of the route is not half the job nor being bumboy to the commander... the commander of the fleet to goldly come where no other persona's gone after... a little asshole here a tad cock there, a mouth of cunt and dry sand there, as the papersanded asshole gives on the going god ..



She knows the port from stern or is it stem from teeming porpoises or pioneers on land...? is that the arctic icebreaker she's seething in her 'dream' called you.... shes' pronoun to her commonplace name... hat to her sun sempiternal to the cut harvest of love fairs... war trade sypcraft and cunning rerouting of trade bounces across the centimeter of her tongue.. straw hat to her bearing...

her pink tongue's mate ... this way the whiplashes fall and the fluted word comes rousing smoke over the tongue's ledge.. it's commandeering of the navy of the south self.. and the desire trains mystifying the walk.. and the dark waters talk and the pleached forms gaze at the sea hawker and hauling her brawling arms her yowling .. this love cubbed to navy...


Call this the intrude...