judy ... el siept of deciembre.

jezuuuuzz.. have merci o que oui.. j'ai osee negligee mes ecrits, mes oublies.. i've spended so much movements, on the keyboards for you and you and you ... and it's o.k. i regret nothing. but i havn't taken the time to write for me.. me mm eme me mememe em . and tonight there was no riding for me, flats on my bi-(ice)cycle the bus becomes a truly rest for thinking , dreaming, creating photos with my eyes, in movements while waiting for cold-shot in burning lights... there will always be whyskey to surround me. o lovely. again i was piss on this no-one yet have invented the type-writing process ink from my delirious thinking in an outside warning, no more walking , just thinking, so fast my body is broken over, my mind is still on fire. i swear to god my life wouldn't that be easier if all i'ever tought so could drop so.. on the paper without me having to actually stay more and more awake... insomniak.... i am like an alley dog sniffing changes in the future.. i almost tought i would get lazy in my formal dishwashing job right by my house.. and all is right by my house.. but i am a cowboy, remember so i willl soon hop back into horses and fuck off my home just in time before this society starts to search again for me ... i'll pay off my sin, not my debts i said my sin they are sweeter like honey on my toungue, let me suck it all down ... once again. there is nowhere to find me. this city have vanished it's coffee they don't allow me to smoke no more... i am a pulmonaire's cloudy lover in need of more dust where i can hide my love like a spider-web i'll grow it from the tip of my fingers all over your walls. but you will not be afraid .. trust me... i intend to be a good boy so santa will come visit me. and we can be flakes in the snow fall... i'll build a fire inside . our shelter .. smells of ginger .. i like it when you write me .the word is honey