The Artist Was The Madman...

[Drew]

macabre minds would say the praise should have went to the passing motorist. ms. haze pettered out in a blaze post setting eyes on the page, where written were confessions of appetites aimed at the apple of her iris. you came in the middle of this. perfect timing to catch the iron clad fascade father figure run about frantic in search of his missing pair of leg earings. the swan song sung it something awful as the crashing of parts gave way to sickness greater than any platoon of plagued rats could create. this is the debate, the chase of the heart, or a distubring head case pursuit. the slight feline outline of a cheekbone, the faintest hint of swell to chest that hides the chancy tome. with the weight of a world and several assorted boulders, sadly his mental image falls back to collapse of her shoulders. makes him think of her face, makes him think of her lips, makes him think of her breath, makes him think of her breasts. if that emaciated sequin doll sort sets your parts afire, you'd best wear the proper flame retardants should you dawn your best sunday attire. looking at this tangle of thorns, would you ever guessed in your fondset carress that her quils could collapse into your chest? anticipation has a strange sink without the swim sort of tact to setting one up. its a pulse climb kind of elation until the gratification ends bitter and abrupt. perhaps the spell of minds matched to make the sunrise rename itself, or maybe the gravity of the clasped cleft simply prompted a slip of self. but if the alms at all go to the motorist, the homage was granted to mother as the catalyst....