Thursday

between weak


 between weak and free. And its tea for the townseys. its mulligan's stew. that's all . my love. Or son balking at the be backwater of its dozen. restting to its cousin. Not guilt . Not shame. But promise to its potent revival.  


 Crested by the will of many its ghost latitude apocalyptic .  Over the bevel the sea reminds its everyone its two ship pause is cause for leaving and the vicar loves oats as much as he loved the taste of her tit in his mouth. Naive milk of human kindness!  O priest imagining jinns  these milks spouting on the sortie of a woman's nipple tit   ~  If adjoining these hands made anyone come free to its loam bound lover then we've chosen right their heirloom suckle.

Lover where is your name midst this straw. Backed berry hoodlum to its swarming multitude.