God Of Suburbia
- Name
- Ally
- Age
- 33
- Gender
- Male
- Location
- In The Land Of Make Believe.
Member since September 24th, 2007
Contact
- PM
- Send a private message
- Friends
- Add to friends
About
Unabridged.
Where's the coup de tat when the ruffians already stole the unemployment checks you left bleeding beside your coffee? They now know us—our doses divulge our identities. Sitting en Blanc won’t solve anything when we don’t even call the verdict. He may even be a liar. The prosecutor won’t even suspect a damn thing.
Insubordinate.
The plaintiff was kidnapped on the barrier on Main Street. His briefcase was shattered, raped, and salvaged. Unemployment checks, management papers, cases and identities were exposed. Plastic limbs and nylon hearts recycled and unused were flying from daggers. He failed crash test; he’s doing it again. Just that THIS method is high on roulettes.
Damned.
Bleeding would account the expense of your private crucifix and the lives of two; sane to the bone, ruffian. Call the 911; the jettisoned 747 minor is disabled. Military and armed arbitrators ready for devising demise. Target practice first? Tranquilizers and flames incinerate, or on your mother’s rage I will choke the hell out of you.
Sworn in hell.
“Why do we need justice? Couldn’t we just go to the part where we all go home like a big happy family? We already had burnt all the matchsticks, letters, doctrines, files, and birth certificates. What else do we need to go home again? The war won’t stop until the brigade is done.”
“Kid, it’s not the same when we’re not fighting.”
Living the imaginary.
The Concorde is about to lift off. Palindromes and debris are flying in the algid altitude, divulging international secrets to unwanted eyes. The letter scribed in cuneiform was mine to keep, until she, the devil, stole my heart. A prodigy, she could trace every wince I spout like a fingerprint with very graphic obstructive sides. But even her teeth bore the sadness, “Casanova, the lieutenants sing…adieu and I’ll destroy you next time.”
Send my love a letterbomb and visit me in hell.
Where's the coup de tat when the ruffians already stole the unemployment checks you left bleeding beside your coffee? They now know us—our doses divulge our identities. Sitting en Blanc won’t solve anything when we don’t even call the verdict. He may even be a liar. The prosecutor won’t even suspect a damn thing.
Insubordinate.
The plaintiff was kidnapped on the barrier on Main Street. His briefcase was shattered, raped, and salvaged. Unemployment checks, management papers, cases and identities were exposed. Plastic limbs and nylon hearts recycled and unused were flying from daggers. He failed crash test; he’s doing it again. Just that THIS method is high on roulettes.
Damned.
Bleeding would account the expense of your private crucifix and the lives of two; sane to the bone, ruffian. Call the 911; the jettisoned 747 minor is disabled. Military and armed arbitrators ready for devising demise. Target practice first? Tranquilizers and flames incinerate, or on your mother’s rage I will choke the hell out of you.
Sworn in hell.
“Why do we need justice? Couldn’t we just go to the part where we all go home like a big happy family? We already had burnt all the matchsticks, letters, doctrines, files, and birth certificates. What else do we need to go home again? The war won’t stop until the brigade is done.”
“Kid, it’s not the same when we’re not fighting.”
Living the imaginary.
The Concorde is about to lift off. Palindromes and debris are flying in the algid altitude, divulging international secrets to unwanted eyes. The letter scribed in cuneiform was mine to keep, until she, the devil, stole my heart. A prodigy, she could trace every wince I spout like a fingerprint with very graphic obstructive sides. But even her teeth bore the sadness, “Casanova, the lieutenants sing…adieu and I’ll destroy you next time.”
Send my love a letterbomb and visit me in hell.
