cider asphalt eyes puking ascetic annelida into my iris whilst I carve French poetry in your dulcet thighs. You don't notice though. Rome is in Italy , Rome is in Europe. They don't notice it too. They notice the picturesque faces playing with the sternum of innocent children whose mouths are filled with mango and pomegranate seeds breathing in talcum powder. They notice the half-naked vinegar girl showing her saggy areola to familiar rotten men she once saw in her father. They notice the towering men twisting the arid arms of young children in the Middle East. They notice the grotesque boy when he writes with his svelte swine fingers on the saffron cardamom paper. They wouldn't notice me putting my ventricle on your breasts
