zip @ 2005-06-06T19: 04:00
The day you came, my mother threw-smelling yellow sand dust. I got divorced from Etruscan doubts and signed a pact with the African life. I just burn your hands with a cup of tea. I can feel the skin swells and as prints mainstreaming in your discipline that afternoon they came to steal the car. The factory eventually became Dante an eternal drama. I can not further describe diaphragms while you disrupt my anger cystic. Abandon your perverted rituals monarch, purple flowers aims and breaks down pictures of my misery. My husband is rocking the sun. The police come and bury me in crushed glass. I can not write poetry because my space has become a huge white sheet of gray grid and you've swallowed without chewing my own pace. The mailman ran over and burned the plague everyone. You have broken all my music box. Stoning that lamppost.
