Thursday, May 22, 2008

an island called my own

It's an infection, power, electric aphrodisiac, men strut in the robes of robbed graves. While the ones in the gutters of blood turn their heads up and say, Jeez thanks
before there were no gutters.

The Emperor does his nails himself. None of his queens could bear peeling the skin off the adders neccessary to this task...

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