Mouthing a scowl. Speaking of the “I”.

I really shouldn’t go on… I really can’t. A belly full. Flavour and food- glutting, gluttony; go on. It’s all in retrospect, clinging like a crown to the past. Time hanging around us. Broth, booze and snooze y’a lose.

Liquor toast makes

This

Meal

Made and forget my mail male mate. Porking and turning it all. Over. Fraught with curls and hoping trails. Moving tragic fuming holiday. Estalgia rollicking permanence. Fuck me you strangling gas. No sight- just an invite and hoping for the best. Cover me.

Cover

Me up. My love zo zo zo zo zo