Monday

hunter

Homeless hussy on the heath bending the feather lacing the canoe guts  going downstream there's a hooker out along the cove face clipping along she is hefting waves and pushing heights we're tacking in her wake bullocks to her gore groaning sighs. On the moyle of her reft.




Jill arrives home combing her pleats friggers and benders in her orgiastic moment of self realization. Suddenly chucking it all out the window as the epistemology falls down the damn stories And bang down the stairs go the 'old ways' and the terminal blues.

Something of that kind adds up. She weares clothes that spare no wrinkle in her defeated skirt of curtain. She holds his cock day and night. Her mouth open to the wingsings of fired from his mouth to her orifice plain view in day. None love it as she do. later thumbing copies of the dead poet's work she's collected vanities and thoughts to rub her thighs on. On! you whore! that's a boat not a street walker! you tramp. Get yer arse back to London. The queen of dubs and punks waitis for her. shes asthmatic to a fault and imperious to the point of being rude. Her irish tongue's wattling the keep and rendering folly useless. She's a narrator sans guilt and plenty of room for more.



Its not political science she's after to finding then, its a lover's sweep in her hands, lound lamentations and the fair host of love's bucket.

Some trinket along those lines my love.

And if you dont get you never will Jacky boy. Her Jill He Jack up and down the agglomeration of self.

Not tender other.
Or tinder wolf.


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