Once upon a time of times...
In the crisp, bitter-tasting, sweetly saccharin morning of forever stale-tasting mornings, that has finally ridded, or at least, ejected the noisy nuisance of nastiness and eternal infuriatingly frustrated nail-biting of the night before that had been played out, played out as a combination, a cocktail, une melange, of Christian goodness and a fallacy of faith that was enacted then, again, re-enacted by a girl of no good, great gracious graces, who wore nothing but salmonella tinged briefs - from American Apparel, of course - and a battered, tattered rag that preposterous people would name, or label a "Lumber Jack" shit with a donkey-print bra displayed beneath - as the labouriously gesticulated the donkeys of a four year old's Toy Story-fied dreams where exposed, shamelessly.
The fragrant fragrance of Jean Paul Gaultier was not a distraction from the crisp, cruel and forever stylishly slightly Christian Louboutin pumps she wore to compliment the curdling car crash of an anecdotal anecdote of a shittily charming outfit.
As she scraped the stench-stink-ridden draining drain of drains that was her broken soul, she moved, swiftly, to grab a shovel and, as a train carriage might trundle, tremble, crumble, mumble and grumblingly grumble along it's tiresome rust-bitten tracks, she took up said shovel and best he trombone playing loving loved lover to a glorious and permanently blood splattered death because he sported a donkey-coloured haircut.
And they lived, corpse and bride, happy ever after...
In the crisp, bitter-tasting, sweetly saccharin morning of forever stale-tasting mornings, that has finally ridded, or at least, ejected the noisy nuisance of nastiness and eternal infuriatingly frustrated nail-biting of the night before that had been played out, played out as a combination, a cocktail, une melange, of Christian goodness and a fallacy of faith that was enacted then, again, re-enacted by a girl of no good, great gracious graces, who wore nothing but salmonella tinged briefs - from American Apparel, of course - and a battered, tattered rag that preposterous people would name, or label a "Lumber Jack" shit with a donkey-print bra displayed beneath - as the labouriously gesticulated the donkeys of a four year old's Toy Story-fied dreams where exposed, shamelessly.
The fragrant fragrance of Jean Paul Gaultier was not a distraction from the crisp, cruel and forever stylishly slightly Christian Louboutin pumps she wore to compliment the curdling car crash of an anecdotal anecdote of a shittily charming outfit.
As she scraped the stench-stink-ridden draining drain of drains that was her broken soul, she moved, swiftly, to grab a shovel and, as a train carriage might trundle, tremble, crumble, mumble and grumblingly grumble along it's tiresome rust-bitten tracks, she took up said shovel and best he trombone playing loving loved lover to a glorious and permanently blood splattered death because he sported a donkey-coloured haircut.
And they lived, corpse and bride, happy ever after...
