Perfect Girl

You’re on stage screaming not like when we’re talking tables away. Can you guess? Yes, I still feel the same, age might never change that. I’m waiting here for you to finish, to find the things that without, you couldn’t go on. Having a perfect girl, a perfect world. Perfect world. Perfect girl. We’re not living in that world, yet. Before it’s done I think we both deserve a goodbye kiss. I’m screaming, screaming again for no reason. Sun at my back, helicopter leaves trailing, I’ve left my scent, not much more but I’ll be back, I always am, for more… more… screaming… of your… perfect world… perfect girl…

Fascist Dish Liquid

I demand my degree IMMEDIATELY! On the table, a radio’s basic functions are fueling future desire. Uncle Sam easily stocks freedom somewhere more temperate, reflecting our inherently religious policy. I desperately search for my editing egg, I insist you return the paint to prove its propose.
Take this theory: We launch suggestive factions, except a better way. Dear forest, I miss you, but my recent house advances my situation. Kind of like a strategy involving a young child and a gun. Impossible a century or so ago but now our husbands’ entry level jobs prove useful, adding generic items to our lists over all the years we are alive. Too many bottles of dishwashing liquid with no rag. Imitation kitchen plates proclaim victory for America. Our expensive payment is criminal and will traffic artist and whore alike unless truth intends to insure that the technological fashion of today does not cross into fascism tomorrow.