As the spinach and Hollywood Hills, hide, the pleasure
between her legs, is how. She knows, and I, ask for a spoon,
to dip and scoop the enemy of cum, of events in all. I am.
The sand, clothes. I am. The saint, clothes, little to say, ask
and as I dine, the moon surprises us, slime and celebrate,
our chariots of fortune and lens the love.