“Your forehead's so big, it's got its own article on Uncyclopedia.” ~ Chris Brown on Rihanna's forehead

Somewhat gorgeous a la mill or a Bill of a broad, wide-scope, the minty fresh Mannie so I be without an itchy item to reach a tall standing—timber tree—Tinder ain’t free, to flock and gawk, albeit messy and undress me!  Thick thimble, a thumb-nail dipped in split milk upon the bar—ME SOBER AS OF 2016—I’m proud to have abandoned beer and liquor—I want to lick (liking) her beautiful face—my brother Justin was once Maced in his front-side showing clout and clutter when Mr. Peter Sargent—well he came after—him my Traumatic Brain Injury buddy and orally a “partner” but one time only, late at night, dreamily, me thinking of Laurie’s booty—it was not “fruity” at all or in the least—seeing Easter sun of bodily lubrication, being saliva, albeit not ever again, as long as I’m witty, pretty, and waiting on a $315 “Mont Blanc” Pen—but no longer attending Jehovah’s Witness “meetings” on Zoom, did I throb too soon—Peter drank and fell (on a public bus...) no fuss, so well, he dealt with the Po of him showing the sanctity of now, no drinking insanity, I think, I hope, just like I’ve given out-loud a big loud outright “NO” to any alcohol complication being “consumption”—my assumptious conjection to the jerks at “The Insurrection” showed an ovation and onto, unto a meal for me and him, he caught my “JIB” and I like skinny girls showing ribs—of meat for dinner and on her body—not too shoddy—that sucked to fuck a duck while hunting the urban pigeons—my brother was called “piggy” by a derelict junk Grandfather—no one misses him with smoking in his old age, musty “Retirement” kind of home, but me, here, at “Averte” I’d rather be at MY REAL HOME in Charlton, MA—I don’t smoke cigarettes so no Cartons, within the margins of writing this gold of golden gold, striped in a line along my neck (line, linked) spread Britney Spears now old and not the forte of all, anymore, and I show dismay at her previous smoking and drinking—She had it all—“Oops, I Did It Again!”

The song while enamored in fame—Britney became a shame of sorts, stuffing her belly with sweets, at some “Resort”—she might provide a retort of her having so many riches, that Britney B. what a show to see, and in high school us Saint John’s students thought of her dreaming oh-so fantasy like, hop on a chopper and flex the exhaust pipes, 4” long me singing a song of my own, Bugler end-pipe Tobacco in very small amounts, my Doctor said, after seeing said “pipe”—that’s “nothing” and I wish my lungs well, as the MMJ card has come to an end...

I don’t really care about getting “high” anymore, but the CBD gummies I implore Carissa Brisette to give me my mail, because without Boston Hempire (CBD ONLY! NO ‘DELTA’!) I find myself in my apartment breathing fresh air—while I “AIL” and Hits 1 on Sirius, it fails, has fallen, to the latest hits, barren of my-liking and my taste upon a waist-level kiss... but wasted with time when I could be laid upon a real “Dime” that B. is fine and fancy, Mrs. no-name Nancy?

How about that “Fancy”…

A snifter, a sniff-er, a “catcher”—oh get at’ter—come batter-batter... With the Ph. D. master of contemplation, so SANE? so IN-SIDES SPILLING? what guts, phlegm of cutesy cigarette brown butts, it’s a real Fussy Feline to recline when expected of nothing but to eat the Friskies and kitty on the couch, so Comfortable, meowing at the pie’s crusted extremities, mother kitty of milk come out the SAVE THE TA-TA’S tattoos hiding a bruise along one’s cheek—Rhianna, is she still in?

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