The loveposition is on its own; such a foam of stir: ghost riders go wild in flames.
On fire, such taking anything that's next to the Moon in rampage of desperation, such a lover cunt; such a cunt lover: the camps of green milk are joy and semen now: the Sun of Britannia appears under the little girlies' skirts like the sweet butter and the sweet love.
It's morning.
I love you all day.
And all of the night.
From darker skies we have come here, to this interstice of time/space, to this aberration; to this gap in the history.
From the darkest skies of Dunkerke, when the summer shines sinister in the evening.
.
