Mouth-To-Genitalia

Put two ounces in my hand. Change glasses refurbish your charm wardrobe, drippingly gambling. Risky stance, less threatening than a bucking minx. Staggering home from Cumulus depot bars, my outposts record visions startling to the tiny phone of our eternal captain. Beefy, our knees buckle magnetically toward the captain gravesite. Rows of plankton dirt, nutrient dirt, smudged filthy piles of dirt, redded impact debris craters, lenses flashbulbing, cradling newborn wires into Clay's electric fanny stuff, jade piercings draped over my harmonic noise echoes, visually esteemed, choice chops under the clear discharge, dredged up from perfect red hot memory. Edge of the sane vista becomes a middle vagabond healer, sometime warrior of world suzerainty. Foxglove off, now disappearing minors, cathodes raying on Coughlin, a unique cancer of survival eye wants Dushku. Unique Dushku unto teams' homes, original necklace of a pearl wave. Butt dessert. Something Eliza said she knew she deserved.