S u n d i n   R i c h a r d s
 

Monkey Gland

Harried little harlot, say what you see. Your only currency is your body. I’ll love you every day but Sunday, says the pistol to its holster. Thus I look up all the words starting with S merely to feel at home. A plastic whiskey bottle, saint or gnomon, either way, it points. Another savior sky and so what? There’s lots of those.




























 
 
 
 
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