The weekend almost over,a simple flip of the coin will mean tremors wrapped in a horse blanket and that means the work slave will once more rule the mind,no doubt a sweaty sock full of demons will invade the space i climb into when i pull on my trousers.My tiny red van will run riot over hill and dale butterflies will rest on the last of the summer flowers;i saw a peacock butterfly in all its glory this past week, i stopped watched moved closer and could smell the death of summer under the fragile wing beat.And if i whispered,i am sure forty-two double DD's would softly fold around the fog in my mind.

Thursday brought on the double fog,the strange fog from where it came i ofton wonder never the less it hardly ever thins or drifts to climates new,i have even thought to my self bring it on more intense until the mind does a star trek warp factor and vanishes,until the next time the desire to find my fat dragon a bull to service her,to fill her up until the orgasm tides over her in waves the crashing foam tumbling tossing the sins of the world in a wash, of why not,and why should any one else be bothered if i so desire a bulls testicles to dangle from the fat dragons hungry flower.