Helicopter Tango-Mango Girly Babies

Years are like drops, some acid ones, some bitter ones, some sweeter little ones, but all of them, they make your hair curlier than the minute before. They are water, they are illusions made liquid, they are jelly, they are love turned down. Rain is impossible, clouds are illusive foams having fun above while we take a waltz for a granted trip. We fly, we flow, we die in a row, we keep on, we land and consider mud just as another joke, and we go again, we run too fast and far from the initial pun. There is, there was, past time give love a sweet perfume of gas. We too, we neither, we are the legless kangaroos. And the sun, an ex-friend of ours, has given it up, and said, our souls belonged to clouds that stream above. Hail. Creamy heaven, we come, we count until six or seven, comes, undone, nevermade. VAMP (magazine, baby whoo) and lycanthropes, girls and their hairy dog-shaped friends, the ones with filthy dark hair, the repetitive everyday we try to fly away from. Emily Didonato and our cherished Jamie Bochert, those who knew where the golden exit is, before guns start to sing, and shout their opera.