#mój bełkot intektualny

[machazer]

High after dr*g.

When I am the Owl. I fly over onto Jan Mayen.

My neck is never so taste.

My throat doesn't smell like your love.

I prefer my neck to smell like your thighs

and/or the hands of our future daughters.

my sadism was once part of

a larger system of traits, advantages, disadvantages, phobias, masochism, egocentrism, loneliness, paranoia, complexes and so on.

everything that was inside me and made me "white poor trash" according to my surrealism and nihilistic matter.

and then there was the non-heteronormative definition of me in the sphere of sexuality, which was in an eternal process of definition.

sometimes my neck would like to cut off my throat along with my larynx and Adam's apple.

they are deep because water and whiskey always flies through them, as well as smoke from the clouds of burning cannabis and the wagons of pipes. this towards the lungs, which were once devastated by diseases and chronic pneumonia and asthma.

This neck most willingly cooperated with my sadistic self-aggression and with the female bond, which first they would turn off the primal instinct.

Then they would turn off the lungs and the rest, with the brain, the heart and this parody and grotesque with other dysfunctions, I guess it should be called being or life.