A knotted tangle of pain in my brain

I bathe in a chunk of my mom's sharkness:  I am bird death is nut.  Clouds suckers don't even change anything.  For you I will be thought suckered as a dirty word named shit.  It is shit to be another word suckered by a vergb.  Call me a cruel man with no passion for bart, I am here.  I am boring.  I am here.  Thought is a god of peace.  Do not be my thinking for my mind.  Sartre darkened my mind with a road to flowers.  Shit is bart calling darkness here.  War is a flower bashing chaos and death by being sick and flowered with a masturbating clown.

I give you a godd ess sickened with my mind here and God is a bore of my Sartre's anger.  Clouds talk to me like I am flat with possibility, like death parts itself for a moose.  I cannot die with a man in my crack.  Sickened is the drink of a pagan troublemaker ; God talks to me like I am four.

Please be nuts for your flowers; please act like a goddamn pagan for your shame in body.

I do not feel God sickens thought; he merely dies for bodies that are crossed out of my thinking.

It is needed to make God flower like  a man on a trashy land named bore.  Cold and sick are the names of my possibility.  Cloueless sorrow bothers pain with my body.  I wish darkness and its sickness would be thought and darkness without calling dreams poor of my mind.  Change please give me peace.

I love your mind.  I am distant.  I am your thought of my mind.  I wish you would destroy me with a narcotic density taking me three two darkness .  Flat and brooding, I bother you wish landguage.l  Crones die when flat mothers say they are flues to the night of my mind.
]
Can't you understand that humor and fun and laughter and irreverence a re babies?  I don't go there.  I don't love body, because it bothers me to act on my manly darkness, which is to be a flower in the crazy clown sickened with sharks and money.

Four you I am a darkness without peace.  I am a flower with no purty troubles.  I loved my mind; my mind called me flower, sue me for my mind.  I love God for being stupid with his shit in my crackhead drunken orgies.  I feel worse everytime I die with a floweer in my shit.

Poor and troubled I shit here because no one wants to hear from a goddess of a man called share.  Low in the flaming shit is a fman darkly four his own darkness flowering in God's manly troubles.

I rest why here is here top me.  I am a bodtoom called share.  Why do you believe in my passion when I am friendly to those who wish cruelty to make land into shit.

I care about my mind.  I care about the drums.  I care about your life, and you wish me to be another cruel thoughtless dinko.

Why am I a flower?  Why am I you?

Clueless is okay for all.  Is my tincture of manhood.  I wish God was free to be God for my mind.  Then I would love pussy for its darkness and peace.  I have no part in me wich is cloudy.  Good Lovers say they are lovinng because they are treating me like a moose.  Quilting in the dream of a world with no pain is the same as a word knowing its own sharkness.  Flee the darkness, do not become a man without cold language.

I seek you family family family.  Class, group, nation, gender, race, religion.  Sick in my band of boredom.

Quilt my life in a large room without trees, without my mind, without your friendship.  Be Boo, the alterior narcotic density of my bashing thought with a moose's gayness.

Please oh well It bought paper, so many papers I knew they would be breaking their stink into death.

And God darknes stink with me.  I used you to be loving to you.  Is that a hateful dark crooked shit of my mind, or are you thought of a s my mind?  I love your dreams.  Please anser the dream of body -- I got my thoughts in a sinking cranberry tree.  Please listen:  I crave bathing in a land of bob.