Ball de Dash

After too little time, the stones mutter with each other, and festoonery bloked with outboard tutelage as wrong-footed as any hitherto slips and chills the unforeseen groaning until...Just then (then) which was until only just then, turps partially carpet the masonry. The hero's earhole shudders and shimmies and a horn's inter-flection cries lost lanterns. "Fry Frisk," Wink witters studding the sky's ramparts and breathing fuel bills. Foolish feet burgeon apatter in the mosque. Why and when are crispier pamphlets whored off as felt magazines? Holy gloved until later, she muses. Four walls to an oven, the Wink is undergone.

Robe balancing a night time of hurt and it is Friskys turn to cry.
Bluntly humming, a moorhen cranks a sluice of conceit receiving only rumblings on Seahorse Ave, sweet envy fussing those blessed of china-hot halter tops. Fat resistors are independent, seemingly, though trace filings cast limitlessly on fun tiled crimpolene and the steps leading back and acrest of the trinket strewn stairs give up the hand tackle.

Frisk's summer

Frisk the man boy drop kicks tons of it. All over him and he don't care. Swamping out his toungue to a full crane of intimacy drives a memory deeper and the grass remains like a chink, rasping a leathery bodice across grooves not yet cut.

Ice cream syrup punctuates the lurid fact his thorny collegiate just don't get it and ain't never gonna. Still, so silent, a thoughtful Sand Wink, subdued as ever in wrinkled helmet, entombs the corn as a trump or deck hand must; but then such sullied notions obviate only drosser concerns and thumbing the latter invalidates it. Aluminium breath crumbling the night sky, Frisk backs away and strips in jazz to the flourescent bungee ramparts combing a song. Tracklights wisp.

Leap One

The split section baby release interval aint nothing but a pore sweat gland drinking fish like a funnel. Slick Mac and his horny fissure drift madly as a moon rises deftly. Atop the curvature of the maudlin elf, statue like, preludes of parsnip cars slurp trunk rudders and berate him.

"Salome summers are utterances in doom," says the shop keeper, keeping himself, peeping along the slatted deck chair he skates asunder. "Now then, all that astride," parps the Frisk, popping a coin aghast the onlooking froggery, buttons twixt ballasts of sand shooting aginst his pheromonic, halo intrinsic waistline. Brag in, brag out, drag in, drag out.

He rotates reasonably and they call out in a fug, breastless but reasonable.