biscuits, graves of angels stinking across:
pepper wind
swamp hug
state flower
bleeding vag
unprepared
prag bungling
the buggery
and horror, Wade Boggs is gonna die in Tampa, 2031--
the liquids drain along the small fault down to the gutter, where the sewers rise greetingly
spreading the ashes and obliques, a bed of dirt in which to leap to break the fall, ylang-ylang
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