Sign of a new age
the pope and all his bishops gather
at a huge, important table
and eat bowls of bullets in goat's milk
it's good for their bowels
and they recommend it to everybody
everybody is uninterested
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The eyes are dark but the body is bright
The tunnel is dark in movement of trains
Copulation of oils and electricity
Passengers kiss each other strangely on the last day
Buildings collapsing like birth control above them
And the ground hurts like
an alcohol hot-tub vagina beneath them
burnt by all the parties she has known
and none of you can help me
none of you in this novel
striking sparks against the pages
that are written at the expense of your soul
and the soul is paper
and the night is a train moving through couches and televisions
in the skyscraper fire escape night
bottles are being thrown
into places you’ll never be lowered
whole books are being written
in locations never ejaculated gardens are being seen by the lonely
from fiftieth story windows over a night of blue-black tar
paperback lipstick confessions after the fact
the fact is flesh
The tunnel is dark in movement of trains
Copulation of oils and electricity
Passengers kiss each other strangely on the last day
Buildings collapsing like birth control above them
And the ground hurts like
an alcohol hot-tub vagina beneath them
burnt by all the parties she has known
and none of you can help me
none of you in this novel
striking sparks against the pages
that are written at the expense of your soul
and the soul is paper
and the night is a train moving through couches and televisions
in the skyscraper fire escape night
bottles are being thrown
into places you’ll never be lowered
whole books are being written
in locations never ejaculated gardens are being seen by the lonely
from fiftieth story windows over a night of blue-black tar
paperback lipstick confessions after the fact
the fact is flesh
Your home is broken like a clamshell
The meat revealed
Your father sold rugs to unhappy ladies
While the cities burned like blonde hair
Oiled idiots dance into unnecessary rain
This pattern is the same as fingernail
You’ll need it when you get old behind a drunken desk
All the rectangles overturned
All the bedsheets smelling like new rain on the powerlines
This broken home is a new tar road
Walked by lonely sons and daughters
Meeting for a golf course fuck, green as the stars
That have just been born.
The meat revealed
Your father sold rugs to unhappy ladies
While the cities burned like blonde hair
Oiled idiots dance into unnecessary rain
This pattern is the same as fingernail
You’ll need it when you get old behind a drunken desk
All the rectangles overturned
All the bedsheets smelling like new rain on the powerlines
This broken home is a new tar road
Walked by lonely sons and daughters
Meeting for a golf course fuck, green as the stars
That have just been born.
I want a girl with a nasty mouth
To shrink these days into feminine hours.
The wine we taste is supermarket sour.
The kisses here are programmed into marching spines
But a light is heard in darkened rooms
And a prophet leaps head-first plate-glass out of the party.
(He is found later on the pavement by police monsters
grateful to stare into the face of a famous monster.)
I feel better knowing backs are breaking for my pleasure.
I feel better being poor by bloated standards
and hidden among greater decadences.
When the horny proletariat comes to drink my blood
I’ll hide under a fat millionaire.
The heart is a pepper. The dancing girls are fingers
On a loving hand. But the wrist is broken.
I feel better knowing throats are slit somewhere else.
I feel better being fifteen for the rest of my life.
I feel better than a sea which doesn’t feel at all.
What makes your face so cold all the time?
I’m not buying it, or slipping on the pennies of frozen sperm
You leave behind all over common sidewalks in the acid rain.
You see, it’s all going to melt, bitch, it’s all
going to include your worshipped skeleton.
We’ll be over it, making love like sexless children in a forest that floats
Far above these cities of stone. The stone is flesh. And the icy hours are melting too.
To shrink these days into feminine hours.
The wine we taste is supermarket sour.
The kisses here are programmed into marching spines
But a light is heard in darkened rooms
And a prophet leaps head-first plate-glass out of the party.
(He is found later on the pavement by police monsters
grateful to stare into the face of a famous monster.)
I feel better knowing backs are breaking for my pleasure.
I feel better being poor by bloated standards
and hidden among greater decadences.
When the horny proletariat comes to drink my blood
I’ll hide under a fat millionaire.
The heart is a pepper. The dancing girls are fingers
On a loving hand. But the wrist is broken.
I feel better knowing throats are slit somewhere else.
I feel better being fifteen for the rest of my life.
I feel better than a sea which doesn’t feel at all.
What makes your face so cold all the time?
I’m not buying it, or slipping on the pennies of frozen sperm
You leave behind all over common sidewalks in the acid rain.
You see, it’s all going to melt, bitch, it’s all
going to include your worshipped skeleton.
We’ll be over it, making love like sexless children in a forest that floats
Far above these cities of stone. The stone is flesh. And the icy hours are melting too.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Radiant doubtful profiles
and they don't care who dies so long as they have a piece of land they're selling stars on the radio you can re-name whole constellations after your girlfriend she can blow you under her own constellation in the driveway if you lick up your own sperm you'll gain spectacular powers of intuition now the advertisements have ended for a moment they're yelling at each other on the radio on all the radios all the radios in america my hatred is more beautiful than your hatred my religion is more logical than your religion we escape to a path in the woods but the sky opens and they're cancerous powerlines buzzing overhead vehicles with lights come up the scorched hill just as we're getting inside each other we have to run with blankets leaving our belts and underwear and everything up in the woods including the radio the radio screams at itself all night in a grassy void until somebody turns it off with a shotgun sniffing the pants we left behind we're in the pool dragging our fingers across each other's moss underwater bob dylan singing inside the garage the drumset shakes under the impact of the speakers garcia lorca waits on the coffee table with the whites of his eyes filling up with blood a fuller nothingness is offered by the night sky extending falsely in every direction just like those with guns marching and the condom fills up with emptiness and the emptiness is withdrawn from the emptiness and creation is a gap in some unseen music we just ended up on this island nobody paid our way back home now we're drifting in this chemical water talking about an old painter we knew back home he kept a red sheet over his eastern window in the winter the sun going down would light it up and the whole room would turn red at four pm and he turned the radio down low and told us that the government was spying on him if you lick up your own sperm it'll give you secret powers
These battles in an instant
the watermelon waits infected with human thought the garden is empty except for one human the watermelon thinks it's going to be picked it's been polluted by human expectation there is a mind growing between its black seeds unnoticed the apearance is the same the human readies herself to swallow a newborn mind the air doesn't send any warning shocks she pressed herself against me and offered herself as an alternative to my talk about eternity i rejected her and later when i rejected eternity she was no longer waiting i left her the mechanics of my music but the notes themselves as separate entities dripped down the wall like engine oil and nobody wants to keep that smell around after the sleeper's gone the animals in the ditch are cum the stars in the sky are cum the paint on the house is cum the bird droppings on the porch are cum the sap of the trees is cum the fruits of the garden are filled with cum the traces i left on her left traces on others and in the garden a silent orgy a red gasp one white throat and nothing ever opens again it's a closed universe and semicolons are dispatched like bullets to those whose machine-gunned pauses come at inconvenient moments and nobody picks up the shadows that the soldiers left behind i tried to tell you when it's an invasion the invasion is happening everywhere when it's a bombing all the dwellings are on fire at once and our brains are developing too slowly to stop the processions the rape squads eat sausage at my kitchen table i smile at them weakly and try to make them laugh between rapings the laughter left behind bookshelves of chronology has lost control of the present and now all the laughter is the laughter of the enemy she scrubbed me in the shower as if i had been brutalized i felt the scrape of her broken hands against my flesh i knew she had been at war all her life i apologized for cowardice she bathed me in the sweat of soldiers that dripped from her hair
Speak a body
say my name it is a fiction written by my parents look at my bills they are the traces of a false life rub yourself on my mailbox whip my television these things will respond make love to the briefcases of every journey slobber your kisses on the seat of my chair who knows how many animals this is a slave's house but the slave does not inhabit it the slave is fiction written by the master the person waits inside breathing the breath ascends the song is not the freedom of the slave the song is slave who knows how many animals think of the countries of veiled women yes i know in some countries they veil their women but in america the women are veils and the veils never drop but if it did there would be nothing behind it because the veil is all there is and a man stands like a candle painted by the orgy of his brothers who knows how many animals and every love letter is buffetted around between parades and a big fleshy building rides away from its scaffolding on the shoulders of the impatient who slither through its framework into the sea and return to a ghostly basement where leaves gather in corners and the swimming pools are filled with the chalk of midsummer sunlight
The choir behind the wall
the rulers have frozen heads nobody opens the door to summer spring is in the almost silence of a bird's wings the sky rushes with them the universes in v formations the planets fly together in their movements the cake of stacked worlds responds to a kiss inside its belly she inserted her face into the dream folds of the pillow and said i could do what she wanted and in the shower we told each other that we would never get on our knees for any god but each other and pledged allegiance the snowflakes and sigur ros the whole icelandic island came down on our heads the roof was paper the bedroom was a fading impression vivid from a distance from a distance these lives have clarity in the midst of their forms a fading perfume sends itself out the window to catch a beer bottle tossed in ecstasy from her voice on the phone the coffee tables overturned soothing homosexual plants breathing through the vent next to the couch where we kissed for the first time the multitude of hands have dinosaur minds and the spike tails of their arms move as one thinking to oppose each other they build a cage made of each other's attacks the boy i love swears at the television i sent one hosanna and it went unanswered into static the panic of the heart is calmed when all hosannas are finally disconnected and we stood up in the mirror wetness of polished marble and realized that worship was over the electric wood rose silently all around us and silence was a noise of fence-cracked membranes giving way on attic mattresses
The choir behind the wall part 2
the choir behind the wall waits with their hymnals open the electric wood splices her nerves wounded into mine her mouth above the typewriter receives after coffee and ices the newscast of reproduction the keys are tapped by her nakedness the choir behind the wall waits for a page number to be called the bright eyes of a dog waiting to be walked the wagging of a tail that thumps the wall in all the right places the dinnerplates frisbeed out the window to land on clitoris heads a terrible mistake to think their pleasure was contained in being cracked open but we threw everything a cabinet like a lover flew through the air and like those we adore cannot be caught the dry socket opens a bad breath into the abandoned bathroom where addicted ghosts kneel unremembered in the laundry the choir behind the wall begins to sing to them lonely in a prayer beneath the sink where an asscrack carved some toothpaste in a mammal pattern on the floor
and they don't care who dies so long as they have a piece of land they're selling stars on the radio you can re-name whole constellations after your girlfriend she can blow you under her own constellation in the driveway if you lick up your own sperm you'll gain spectacular powers of intuition now the advertisements have ended for a moment they're yelling at each other on the radio on all the radios all the radios in america my hatred is more beautiful than your hatred my religion is more logical than your religion we escape to a path in the woods but the sky opens and they're cancerous powerlines buzzing overhead vehicles with lights come up the scorched hill just as we're getting inside each other we have to run with blankets leaving our belts and underwear and everything up in the woods including the radio the radio screams at itself all night in a grassy void until somebody turns it off with a shotgun sniffing the pants we left behind we're in the pool dragging our fingers across each other's moss underwater bob dylan singing inside the garage the drumset shakes under the impact of the speakers garcia lorca waits on the coffee table with the whites of his eyes filling up with blood a fuller nothingness is offered by the night sky extending falsely in every direction just like those with guns marching and the condom fills up with emptiness and the emptiness is withdrawn from the emptiness and creation is a gap in some unseen music we just ended up on this island nobody paid our way back home now we're drifting in this chemical water talking about an old painter we knew back home he kept a red sheet over his eastern window in the winter the sun going down would light it up and the whole room would turn red at four pm and he turned the radio down low and told us that the government was spying on him if you lick up your own sperm it'll give you secret powers
These battles in an instant
the watermelon waits infected with human thought the garden is empty except for one human the watermelon thinks it's going to be picked it's been polluted by human expectation there is a mind growing between its black seeds unnoticed the apearance is the same the human readies herself to swallow a newborn mind the air doesn't send any warning shocks she pressed herself against me and offered herself as an alternative to my talk about eternity i rejected her and later when i rejected eternity she was no longer waiting i left her the mechanics of my music but the notes themselves as separate entities dripped down the wall like engine oil and nobody wants to keep that smell around after the sleeper's gone the animals in the ditch are cum the stars in the sky are cum the paint on the house is cum the bird droppings on the porch are cum the sap of the trees is cum the fruits of the garden are filled with cum the traces i left on her left traces on others and in the garden a silent orgy a red gasp one white throat and nothing ever opens again it's a closed universe and semicolons are dispatched like bullets to those whose machine-gunned pauses come at inconvenient moments and nobody picks up the shadows that the soldiers left behind i tried to tell you when it's an invasion the invasion is happening everywhere when it's a bombing all the dwellings are on fire at once and our brains are developing too slowly to stop the processions the rape squads eat sausage at my kitchen table i smile at them weakly and try to make them laugh between rapings the laughter left behind bookshelves of chronology has lost control of the present and now all the laughter is the laughter of the enemy she scrubbed me in the shower as if i had been brutalized i felt the scrape of her broken hands against my flesh i knew she had been at war all her life i apologized for cowardice she bathed me in the sweat of soldiers that dripped from her hair
Speak a body
say my name it is a fiction written by my parents look at my bills they are the traces of a false life rub yourself on my mailbox whip my television these things will respond make love to the briefcases of every journey slobber your kisses on the seat of my chair who knows how many animals this is a slave's house but the slave does not inhabit it the slave is fiction written by the master the person waits inside breathing the breath ascends the song is not the freedom of the slave the song is slave who knows how many animals think of the countries of veiled women yes i know in some countries they veil their women but in america the women are veils and the veils never drop but if it did there would be nothing behind it because the veil is all there is and a man stands like a candle painted by the orgy of his brothers who knows how many animals and every love letter is buffetted around between parades and a big fleshy building rides away from its scaffolding on the shoulders of the impatient who slither through its framework into the sea and return to a ghostly basement where leaves gather in corners and the swimming pools are filled with the chalk of midsummer sunlight
The choir behind the wall
the rulers have frozen heads nobody opens the door to summer spring is in the almost silence of a bird's wings the sky rushes with them the universes in v formations the planets fly together in their movements the cake of stacked worlds responds to a kiss inside its belly she inserted her face into the dream folds of the pillow and said i could do what she wanted and in the shower we told each other that we would never get on our knees for any god but each other and pledged allegiance the snowflakes and sigur ros the whole icelandic island came down on our heads the roof was paper the bedroom was a fading impression vivid from a distance from a distance these lives have clarity in the midst of their forms a fading perfume sends itself out the window to catch a beer bottle tossed in ecstasy from her voice on the phone the coffee tables overturned soothing homosexual plants breathing through the vent next to the couch where we kissed for the first time the multitude of hands have dinosaur minds and the spike tails of their arms move as one thinking to oppose each other they build a cage made of each other's attacks the boy i love swears at the television i sent one hosanna and it went unanswered into static the panic of the heart is calmed when all hosannas are finally disconnected and we stood up in the mirror wetness of polished marble and realized that worship was over the electric wood rose silently all around us and silence was a noise of fence-cracked membranes giving way on attic mattresses
The choir behind the wall part 2
the choir behind the wall waits with their hymnals open the electric wood splices her nerves wounded into mine her mouth above the typewriter receives after coffee and ices the newscast of reproduction the keys are tapped by her nakedness the choir behind the wall waits for a page number to be called the bright eyes of a dog waiting to be walked the wagging of a tail that thumps the wall in all the right places the dinnerplates frisbeed out the window to land on clitoris heads a terrible mistake to think their pleasure was contained in being cracked open but we threw everything a cabinet like a lover flew through the air and like those we adore cannot be caught the dry socket opens a bad breath into the abandoned bathroom where addicted ghosts kneel unremembered in the laundry the choir behind the wall begins to sing to them lonely in a prayer beneath the sink where an asscrack carved some toothpaste in a mammal pattern on the floor
Thursday, November 09, 2006
To the world
I open my body to the world.
The trees are filled with wires.
The rivers are running cold.
A calm is coming.
A peace is filtered through this electricity.
I am the world cleansed of the world.
The bombs that go off in cars belong to me now.
I caress them as if they were breasts
and send them back into a distant summer.
The world is one pulsating tomato.
The world is a series of connected gardens.
I am the wind washed dirty by the world.
And the world is a 24-hour laundromat.
I open my body to the world.
The trees are filled with wires.
The rivers are running cold.
A calm is coming.
A peace is filtered through this electricity.
I am the world cleansed of the world.
The bombs that go off in cars belong to me now.
I caress them as if they were breasts
and send them back into a distant summer.
The world is one pulsating tomato.
The world is a series of connected gardens.
I am the wind washed dirty by the world.
And the world is a 24-hour laundromat.
Monday, November 06, 2006
This will happen again tomorrow
You have so many areas. There is surprisingly little play.
The president on a rippling screen
called the entire population
a bunch of traitors
today.
And now he lies in bed and munches
on the graham cracker
of an entire continent.
The boiling of our only world
is his indigestion.
Which means he's already eaten.
And now we are eating.
And there is a long goddamned table with nobody at it.
And there is a long fucking life with nobody inhabiting it.
You have so many areas. There is surprisingly little play.
The president on a rippling screen
called the entire population
a bunch of traitors
today.
And now he lies in bed and munches
on the graham cracker
of an entire continent.
The boiling of our only world
is his indigestion.
Which means he's already eaten.
And now we are eating.
And there is a long goddamned table with nobody at it.
And there is a long fucking life with nobody inhabiting it.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Gifts from a horse in the dark
I know that powerful men and women unite in government chambers, plotting to put the twinkling of their little minds under our skin, so that the surface will seep under the surface and all but the surface will disappear; so that all that is, will be surface.
We will fight them by throwing tomatoes at the windshields of their black automobiles while they drive over the corpses of pigeons whose bloodied feathers decorate the streets. And the pigeons will be resurrected at the proper moment, so that the clouds will rain the white clay of their droppings and soil the suits of police officers. Another life will come out of the stricken air to rescue us.
There's a wet place between known dimensions where we'll lie down together the moment this is over. The whispering air, in that in-between place, is a circuit that crackles with an electricity not of this earth.
Those who die in peace prevail, through the lungs of those who breathe their spirits through the eyes of peace. Those who die in peace remain in peace, though they wrap powerlines around their ephemeral bodies, and rampage through rich neighborhoods, channeling all the dying sighs of the guilty. Those who die in war and cease to exist are carried bodily out of the country by a hurricane.
There's a forest path and a gap in the air. A place, where a hand can reach a dresser drawer, from another world. The chambers of lichen-coated rock will slide open with a mineral sound, and we will take off the garments of this existence and put on the chalk-blue underwear scattered from flying saucers.
The hoofprints of light, beaten into swift entrances at the forest's edge, are gifts from a horse in the dark. The golf courses, where lightning bugs are strewn like little cities, take on water from the air, and the ghosts of forgotten birds swim soundlessly through the back of your neck.
I know that those who embrace these mysteries are blessed beyond comprehension; that they will become fearless in their last hour; that none shall own or control their bodies, and that a terrible funneling of inner light shall come from their mouths and sear away the commands of the government.
And that their names shall be blessed by the ghosts on darkened golf courses, and in the places where streetlights have been shot out by rifles, crackling weakly like eyes trying to come back to life. And that they shall heal the broken hands of those who were called their masters, and that those hands will roam the sand of beaches like spider crabs for centuries, forgetting how to swim, until they come to believe that their healing is final, and kneel at the feet of their victims, who disappear into thin air at the moment they are worshipped.
--LUKE BUCKHAM
I know that powerful men and women unite in government chambers, plotting to put the twinkling of their little minds under our skin, so that the surface will seep under the surface and all but the surface will disappear; so that all that is, will be surface.
We will fight them by throwing tomatoes at the windshields of their black automobiles while they drive over the corpses of pigeons whose bloodied feathers decorate the streets. And the pigeons will be resurrected at the proper moment, so that the clouds will rain the white clay of their droppings and soil the suits of police officers. Another life will come out of the stricken air to rescue us.
There's a wet place between known dimensions where we'll lie down together the moment this is over. The whispering air, in that in-between place, is a circuit that crackles with an electricity not of this earth.
Those who die in peace prevail, through the lungs of those who breathe their spirits through the eyes of peace. Those who die in peace remain in peace, though they wrap powerlines around their ephemeral bodies, and rampage through rich neighborhoods, channeling all the dying sighs of the guilty. Those who die in war and cease to exist are carried bodily out of the country by a hurricane.
There's a forest path and a gap in the air. A place, where a hand can reach a dresser drawer, from another world. The chambers of lichen-coated rock will slide open with a mineral sound, and we will take off the garments of this existence and put on the chalk-blue underwear scattered from flying saucers.
The hoofprints of light, beaten into swift entrances at the forest's edge, are gifts from a horse in the dark. The golf courses, where lightning bugs are strewn like little cities, take on water from the air, and the ghosts of forgotten birds swim soundlessly through the back of your neck.
I know that those who embrace these mysteries are blessed beyond comprehension; that they will become fearless in their last hour; that none shall own or control their bodies, and that a terrible funneling of inner light shall come from their mouths and sear away the commands of the government.
And that their names shall be blessed by the ghosts on darkened golf courses, and in the places where streetlights have been shot out by rifles, crackling weakly like eyes trying to come back to life. And that they shall heal the broken hands of those who were called their masters, and that those hands will roam the sand of beaches like spider crabs for centuries, forgetting how to swim, until they come to believe that their healing is final, and kneel at the feet of their victims, who disappear into thin air at the moment they are worshipped.
--LUKE BUCKHAM
Thursday, November 02, 2006
A film summary
Aidan Layne starts her life
with a great scene in Lockwood Forest.
Aidan's wide eyes are on display
in some short skin
and Lockwood has the pleasure
of loving the fear out of it.
Aidan's eyes are scorched
in a reverse cowgirl, piledriver;
she defies death
and the forest finally pops in her face.
Jayna Oso uses all the information
in her petite frame to scare the fear
out of her two guardian angels.
They use a toy on her mind to get it ready
for the government's assault. After both guys
understand her complaint separately
they move on to more colorful stadiums.
The guys ride in the stream of her vision
for a while after they take turns
staring into her mouth. Jayna's tiny eyes shake
as she's being perfectly understood
and she keeps cooking for hungry children.
To bring his life to a close, one guy
throws himself into her mouth
while the other covers his own body with fire.
Gia Paloma gets rough and crusty
in her revolution scene. Gia
is one of my favorite revolutionaries.
Nothing gets held back, Gia
puts it all on the landscape.
The rebellious action is very blue and concrete.
By the time the guy pops a shell
all over her grey locks and wide open mortality
Gia is dripping with sorcery and misunderstanding.
Olvia O'Lovely and Ice Lafox
come together unintended
for a silent coupling
that was a long time in the freezer.
Lockwood is again the lucky forest
that gets to absorb these fiery implosions.
Great angelic rescue work here
as not one time-travelling of peace is missed.
Both girls are in the waters of eternity
as they keep cupping pools of liquid earth
with their wild imaginations.
Tiffany Mynx unseats two presidents
in the bland finale. I swear
this screaming brunette
has the best mind in politics right now.
Tiffany's killer intellect besides,
she is one human bell of a performer.
Nothing is too sonorous for her to do
as the two presidents are eager to prove.
Tiffany is awesome like a cliff and takes
both presidents into the ocean to end the movie.
Aidan Layne starts her life
with a great scene in Lockwood Forest.
Aidan's wide eyes are on display
in some short skin
and Lockwood has the pleasure
of loving the fear out of it.
Aidan's eyes are scorched
in a reverse cowgirl, piledriver;
she defies death
and the forest finally pops in her face.
Jayna Oso uses all the information
in her petite frame to scare the fear
out of her two guardian angels.
They use a toy on her mind to get it ready
for the government's assault. After both guys
understand her complaint separately
they move on to more colorful stadiums.
The guys ride in the stream of her vision
for a while after they take turns
staring into her mouth. Jayna's tiny eyes shake
as she's being perfectly understood
and she keeps cooking for hungry children.
To bring his life to a close, one guy
throws himself into her mouth
while the other covers his own body with fire.
Gia Paloma gets rough and crusty
in her revolution scene. Gia
is one of my favorite revolutionaries.
Nothing gets held back, Gia
puts it all on the landscape.
The rebellious action is very blue and concrete.
By the time the guy pops a shell
all over her grey locks and wide open mortality
Gia is dripping with sorcery and misunderstanding.
Olvia O'Lovely and Ice Lafox
come together unintended
for a silent coupling
that was a long time in the freezer.
Lockwood is again the lucky forest
that gets to absorb these fiery implosions.
Great angelic rescue work here
as not one time-travelling of peace is missed.
Both girls are in the waters of eternity
as they keep cupping pools of liquid earth
with their wild imaginations.
Tiffany Mynx unseats two presidents
in the bland finale. I swear
this screaming brunette
has the best mind in politics right now.
Tiffany's killer intellect besides,
she is one human bell of a performer.
Nothing is too sonorous for her to do
as the two presidents are eager to prove.
Tiffany is awesome like a cliff and takes
both presidents into the ocean to end the movie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)