Toss ups among Jitterbugging Japes
A PASTOR? OMG what a dirt bag. He drinks booze, probably smokes dope, lives in sin with a woman who isn’t his wife. For regular people NOT in the thug life, in order to murder someone in cold blood, you gotta be on some kinda high octane drugs that give courage required to follow through with heinous acts of vengeance filled violence. And don’t get me started on his skanky wife. Down in the Lower Level we call her a ‘toss up’, ya know some female who throws her legs up in the air, and doesn’t care whose bed they land in. These days’ pew warmers can be some of the MOST amoral people around. Cold blooded Son of a Bitch. Need another shower after watching and listening to this sadistic drivel.
She shall bear fruit in the time of seed not in the time of man.
I’m shaking like a tree in a hurricane.
Cynthia and Jerry got a message for Harry.
We were enveloped in the sweet Smokey darkness of a sultry summer night. Taking nocturnal strolls over graveyards filled with the illicit offspring of priests and nuns. Seedlings of the new reforms. Corpses a series of japes littering the landscape with embryonic fantasy dreams. A Feast of Flesh for maggots and worms. Chaos and terror. Blood everywhere. Odor of lingering 12 day ferment piss hang languishing in the stagnant atmosphere.
Leave no ghost upturned for there are barnacles affixed to near Charnel House ringed with concertina wire.
I see voices on the trench bottom questioning me on ways of escape. I find myself sinking in quicksand people with their backs to me on the periphery.
Soils of different waters tell eat and drink stories whilst jettisoned troubadours poison their listeners with liquid gold.
Svengalis’ in full regalia present alien babies ready for baptism.
My apocalypse is the squalor of an unkempt mind.