BLEU IS ONLY FOR CHEESE BUDS
BEHOLD, dawn beginning to carve half-open eyes into the soot of a night. Hint of a hinge of tomorrow, its hollow edges fake bitch's milk. And see those devoided thorofares regaining names... as if half-shut eyes shaking off dream rust.
Ofasudden, one surly Kawasaki punching a gaping gap into the quiet. Astraddle is a hickazoid returning home from Anti-Christ activities, veering jawdroppingly close to my pristine hardbody.
A not-cushy moment, what with the driven hydrocarbons spewingly polluting at my nostrils, outdoing lippy-loud chaos to babble in the new millennium.