po-at-tree
I'm looking for a cul-de-sac that'll fold my laundry, lapping at the mitochondria, lapping at the mitochondria.
The barbed wire fence kneels to the lower case 'r', balls out on french fries.
Pinks and blues and yellows and slag, the sky is kind to you.
I'm rusting for an answer.
The power line geometry in an avuncular polar cap. No need to remember the calm beneath the nip, lost in deep pools of blond, tethered to the sidestepped frame that holds tonight's conquest and tomorrow's high five.
The porpoise has reservations at the finest abandoned factory, he enables the dim sum to shine. Shine, shine.
The grass is geeky, the diner is deep purple and the houses can't keep themselves off of each other. Residential centipede, smoke 'em if you... nutin' right or left.