Daniel f. Bradley


from T=I=D=Y language

but before i get all facile french-fluid-fest slims-style self-congratulatory romanticizing successes regressive fluidity tsk-tsk territory of patriarchy penis power the yippee eye o guy came i was gone stir-crazy

a whisper of pretty pink lace is guaranteed to make me feel deliciously and luxuriously pampered watching him standing on the sidelines the horse-girl knows that proper clothing is essential for the serious rider and after the service cascades of confetti and rose petals

will greet the radiant brides as we step into the warm shine of hand maid wind chimes shook her head and shyly clutched at juggling books

squirming in the blue zone biology one oh one in thinned arts with just socks on

in night shirts of the sun and heat back to the room

around your age i couldn't keep my hand out of there sometimes i'd go into the washroom for lunch

for a little memo re that flaming thief of virtue


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secret initiate belongs to that super ass ship

hauls the ancients lodge alleged inner circle would be endow esoteric could really shine the resin right off those fingerboards

occultist secret played it sang for her as if a master of magic possessed the knew it was meant for better

haul initiate was book thumped against licked and suckled other mouth o supermen

exit only licking round and round strawberry cone cream slide populist who would exterminate all

inferior thick down down down and right into the f-holes of initiate with supernatural strength and energy we just had to sample

those long luscious energies nip at life and mine aren't exactly raisin tasty

politico who’s into stroke n roll my fingers tuning the rocks and pebbles fully stocked top and bottom


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remarks and compelling oratory swept through the occult club

aspiring instantaneous astro audience reaction

stood while she aggressively inhaled

a scent so wondrous and so familiar read satin control lending capital brushed up against

states of ideal undress before the brain named

order of the revolutionary path shiny proclaimed a read blurry magic lodge


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they don’t paint pictures of their boots on velvet and hang them in their piece of shit living skull jewelry they wear real fucking gold ass fucking disemboweled

themed not actually just a fucking party really turned on by the men with panty thoughts of the men enjoying my well worn

played in them for a day or two thinking about the men getting on my squirm wriggle and then receiving my gifts so i can hear how much you are enjoying the molestation

in the hotel room all that took place was a massage over a pizza the men having advances toward speech sought unapologetic jihad of all stripes

were forced to apply the pond face that same ridiculous temperament too begin with where the men took little effort

that the men romantic apartment to run a service as a gesture struck the painting with the men heaving a hole the size of a silver dollar in the left forearm oh shit look what i've done


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office towers redesigned to solidly leading pro-family plead to a count of oral sodomy

weeks appeared on a stage carousing married apparently intoxicated senses that procure mocking mockers pain cocaine and humiliation toy those who feel he lost everything

stunned everyone by committing an obscenity shutting his pink eyes in the drawing room of her english manor house what a lucky riding crop jiggly lunchlady arms

parental nightmare targets serving positively glowing pride in our county and its institutions inspiring the young folk to public irresponsibility elfish ick dolts

run through the pages through personal sexual romper roams those nefarious entrapment schemers not one of them has ever given so much as a reasonably honest answer not once

the popular look over there technique all fine rump gay haunt married one strong conservative double pleasure principal purely speculative yell of fire in their quote theatre people unquote



Daniel f. Bradley lives in toronto with his girlfriend and their little girl. things are better today but it is early. he prints a little magazine call fhole.

 
 
 
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