Entry: kisses sin Ay Queens, walked me writing my phone number on the back door of the latrine de Atocha, when over my head fell on his face, a more notionally entries erotic and hetero, this overrated and always infects blogosphere.
If Cortázar raised his head, if Klimt Magritte take off the sheets of stone from the grave, if I myself, with all my glamor, makeup out all these stinking toilets stink smell both male, and had to write a critique of a kiss, written, and described, from an alleged unredemption, I would say to the writer of such blasphemy against what is beauty, if that describes kiss is a sin, then I'm straight, I have three kids, a dog , and a beach house without clandestine lover.
Oh, and I water my garden shit on a Sunday morning, when someone brings me the newspaper and read the obituaries. Because
aforementioned lust entry is absent, the narrative rhythm that makes you long for that kiss fades to the next song, which is like drinking a glass of herbal alcoholic liquor after the promise of a monumental binge. And it
the kiss of sin, the real, I give it my Adonis, who drinks from my mouth that tastes just licking sex with his foreskin still shining, tall and sturdy, like a royal crown.
That's a kiss eagerly drinking himself from my tongue: a strange taste and time itself. My saliva and he was broken, pure fiber and despair.
Fall in love with me, I say, knowing that it will scare: love does not interest me, only his mouth spreading, so young, on mine.
You know, desire and sin, the anxiety of the unknown lover claiming to have the wrath of a thousand torments if the kiss cease to exist if their nakedness would not have served my mouth, if my pants had not been lowered and the sweet pain I would not have crossed a thousand guns, guts.
Clearly, queens, the beauty I put the kiss of my mouth, and kids, look no further: I am the kiss that never confessed heterosexual desire.
If Cortázar raised his head, if Klimt Magritte take off the sheets of stone from the grave, if I myself, with all my glamor, makeup out all these stinking toilets stink smell both male, and had to write a critique of a kiss, written, and described, from an alleged unredemption, I would say to the writer of such blasphemy against what is beauty, if that describes kiss is a sin, then I'm straight, I have three kids, a dog , and a beach house without clandestine lover.
Oh, and I water my garden shit on a Sunday morning, when someone brings me the newspaper and read the obituaries. Because
aforementioned lust entry is absent, the narrative rhythm that makes you long for that kiss fades to the next song, which is like drinking a glass of herbal alcoholic liquor after the promise of a monumental binge. And it
the kiss of sin, the real, I give it my Adonis, who drinks from my mouth that tastes just licking sex with his foreskin still shining, tall and sturdy, like a royal crown.
That's a kiss eagerly drinking himself from my tongue: a strange taste and time itself. My saliva and he was broken, pure fiber and despair.
Fall in love with me, I say, knowing that it will scare: love does not interest me, only his mouth spreading, so young, on mine.
You know, desire and sin, the anxiety of the unknown lover claiming to have the wrath of a thousand torments if the kiss cease to exist if their nakedness would not have served my mouth, if my pants had not been lowered and the sweet pain I would not have crossed a thousand guns, guts.
Clearly, queens, the beauty I put the kiss of my mouth, and kids, look no further: I am the kiss that never confessed heterosexual desire.
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