Foxy Story
Freitag, August 28th, 2009After a while, my cousin went mad. He circulated the walls and purified all the latter trash. Constantly, he mumbled by heart the affluence of his bigger cheaper. I told him not to cry. But the soft bundle of his hair, vaguely blond, clutched at my ambiguity very very slightly. The goddamn smoothy. Outside, rain was falling. The intense went too deep. Dark was the sky. Colour wet. Chilled my behaviour. Sexy legs he had. I filled the socket with a plug. Blood was pouring out. A film. Eating up my cousin’s heart. A chicken’s heart. Salty tears ran over his face. Poor smoothy, I whispered. I find myself living in this doll house day by day. Night is lavish. I come to the conclusion it’s weary out there. Stare not at my frightening eyes. Nose closed. All mine. Once I needed it. I have the mind of a toy, a girl’s room brush. A rather boring history lesson and now – never for ever. Now that disgusting latin. I thought, oh no, love. Tell me true stories of you. Tell me many more. I know. I know ashes from fascist. I know it’s easy not to cry. Just ring the iron bell and wait. Sit.