Week 12: 15. Certain (2-3) vs. 16. Vulgar (4-3) \\ Vulgar wins 6-0

Certain · 05-13-2014, 01:29 AM

Turbulent. I'm an astronomer's envy, head in the skies.
Or at least, there's a cloud ringing around the level of eyes.
They've got me dead to my rights. With expedience,
I test the sex, but she's the greediest-neediest-sleaziest.
Diva shit. My eggnog gets a dash of turmeric. Then soon it gets
brown skin from my father. Assume it skipped generations.
Rendered aphids to keep my lady bugged. Stupid bitch. Paleolithic,
except with radial grips and a remedial grasp of stated linguistics,
'cause I get loose lips when I sink sips down the gates of my instincts.
Territorial. I'm Doctor Doom's henchman. Fated to be stoned by things,
but things fall apart. And the invisible woman's already in my net.
Take another stretch. Bending incredible, yet I'm steadily in debt
and unable to have my bankroll for more than two weeks at a time,
especially if I'm using six eighty-three to sate my needs late in weeks
as I ring smoke around the rosy cheeks. It's not blush — acne, rosacea.
My skin's about to peel off like her cunt after the face-sit.
My bus passenger playlist features drums in savage arrangements,
that thump schematic entertainment that helps distract from your smell.
It's still lingering under my yellowing fingertips, trapped under swells
because I've been typing too much. And my cuticles are burnt up.
And I'm usually burnt up, too,
like the cigarettes. And you.

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05-13-2014, 01:29 AM	#2
Certain Mad fucking dangerous. Join Date: Jul 2013 Posts: 12,066 Battle Record: 40-19 Champed - AOWL Season 3 - Art of Writing League (2x) Rep Power: 85899406	Turbulent. I'm an astronomer's envy, head in the skies. Or at least, there's a cloud ringing around the level of eyes. They've got me dead to my rights. With expedience, I test the sex, but she's the greediest-neediest-sleaziest. Diva shit. My eggnog gets a dash of turmeric. Then soon it gets brown skin from my father. Assume it skipped generations. Rendered aphids to keep my lady bugged. Stupid bitch. Paleolithic, except with radial grips and a remedial grasp of stated linguistics, 'cause I get loose lips when I sink sips down the gates of my instincts. Territorial. I'm Doctor Doom's henchman. Fated to be stoned by things, but things fall apart. And the invisible woman's already in my net. Take another stretch. Bending incredible, yet I'm steadily in debt and unable to have my bankroll for more than two weeks at a time, especially if I'm using six eighty-three to sate my needs late in weeks as I ring smoke around the rosy cheeks. It's not blush — acne, rosacea. My skin's about to peel off like her cunt after the face-sit. My bus passenger playlist features drums in savage arrangements, that thump schematic entertainment that helps distract from your smell. It's still lingering under my yellowing fingertips, trapped under swells because I've been typing too much. And my cuticles are burnt up. And I'm usually burnt up, too, like the cigarettes. And you.