eros marsupiel in the soup

grind my body into salt to decorate your plate with kind words that pierce hearts and make for agonizing sunsets of velvet and red microbes circling the wagons and shooting you in the eye with bodily fluids fighting all the time over the correct spelling of your mother’s name.  Its just too grand, too impossible to utter these words, so I keep my mouth shut like a Keebler elf on a giant turtle who inevitably ate too much for dinner languishing in circular reasoning like a stale fart in an icy grip after the sex (which was boring and uninteresting)

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