I hope I won’t quit the delicate finery coming from my mind, a step-mother’s shapened as sloppy ’n’ glossy-Lubed “Behind”

I won’t quit in until I get every itty-bitty bit when pure Scripture is the dope ass shit of what I HIT the keys so solemn, oh me, the way I tease too late to be, operating orating operating on a heavenly and higher class “Frequency” of what it needs to be so nice, so tight, doing the humpty-doo all night through and long and then, ummm be it onto another song, my Wednesday (Ember) delish new- trish with us rocking out and banging heads while I wish for the wild party chick to come at me with the thickest TRUNK to im-place and implant a what a Rant believe I’m oh-so “Spent” of what comes next, betwixt, a candy bar to pull up a seat and have a squishy pink slushy while the bitches, hmmm THE BITCHES BE BUMPING “BEE” and a crump curb to be pulled aside and pull it wide—not to mark up the Michelin lined out rubbed rubbing “rubber” of L A-TEXT-UAL bereavement when the band Seether, you know, Seether, there’s the jamming of notes to floss a Sequin jacket while driving a Toyota Tacoma gassed with teenie-tiny toes, what shows, only I know to stir the soup and swish the ladel — Kitten’s Cradle of a baby bump in the belly, some V’s years ago yeast-earned sweaty and be steady with the Sharpie swished on a dish, a paper plate—I dunno, ever see a paper posted on a pole? a Telephone Pole? Being, “LOST CAT!” and a number to call at that, that the sight of a feline feeling fear and hungry for the food—hopefully IAMS expensive bits and valuable shits in sum ‘o’ dat dare to spread pretty smelling litter, in that cardboard box on the floor, Skittles are tasting like “Bitter” without that fatty Butter on Creamed Corn  <3 Dad <3 Mom <3 Aunt Donna—for this three was and is, always wanting the best for me, them saying “Drink More WATER-“ when I choose to burp up soda of being often, while I profit, the BIT-coins still sitting bank-side and stirring my loins, practice played groin, and me groaning, and me moaning, and me, mostly, being the one who, well, I’ve not thrown any punches, stirred soup and POLO: the Brand Labels

Matters most to Marshall Matthers marking up a MayTag Heuer of a pricey intrusion, my molestor, my rapist, I’ve written about HIM so much aloud... sound around, ALONG AROUND the pierce smart sucka, you sucka, with a GOD-zilla’s “Mothra”

I call upon my Mother, Deborah Marquis is she is of a natural declared and decreed- but oh so discrete typing in slowly displayed sentences—when I need to be like, “BUT THAT BITCH ON ICE...” and in her glass of wine, I would emulate the drinking on a night to pro-create an ooey-gooey meandered and wasted—what a mess, she threw up on her low-cut dress and dribble on her chest—a pirate bringing out the roasted toasted front BRUNT BANTER—my John Deere Stocks bring out the Ant-lers

Yo me gusto pantalones, si?

Yo me gusto Justine and Linda!