Dear Libido Carcrash,

        Today the wordsmiths spoke the sky up again. They plastered it together with rhetoric and syntax screams. Like a circus suicide, it crumbled. Down, to the strip club flowers, blooming and spread wide open. There, we, the radiation maggots, soaked up the venery like a porous condom suit.

        Come dance with me Coitus Clowns

        To get back to the subject, I was born from stardust eggs, ready, willing, but disabled from a libido carcrash. Dressed in amneotic heart attacks, I evolved into the smut peddling Jesus choked up by your amorous chants.

        Time to dance with these Coitus Clowns

        The scenery has been set by the treedwelling seemen that scrape the land. A burning cigarette kissed by lipstick rings. A wardrobe assassination guilded by lace-faced cadavers. The bed stood circles around me, and laughed at my skin suit. And I was a hopeless song.

        Earthquake cabarets swaggered against the languid walls, and you screamed. My pistons failed in self-control, and I screamed. A dull duality of the fuck-parties was strewn across the floor, like your lackluster underwear. I would swim in you if I weren't afraid

        I'm terrified of the Coitus Clowns but I can't resist their parties

                           Sincerely,
                                  The Miserable Walking

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