Warehouse Graveyard

Him pumping me in his uncle held his hand.

The old mill, the old warehouse. My black hair, I was an Irish sister about to let his steam out.

The Marquis show. The TV. It was his cream he made when he let me mask myself and reveal herself for her brother's child in my husband's eyes.

I want it more than I want it now. The second birth. He let me in front of a TV show. The Marquis show.

He made good money online letting his love juice drip out your TV screen.

He had his girl and he did her well too for your TV screen they made her well.

It was a silverscreen coin TV show. How the penny drops in a penny hole.

It was a Marquis TV show filmed in an Old storehouse.

A different dicks a different trick. I am Jurgita Marquis from Dublin. I am Mire Marquis' sister from Klaipėda.

The light bulb was twitching. "It must be fake prophets from Poland."

^.^

Warehouse Graveyard of filled and stocked spiritual lust glory in the crypt serving Satan their sexual spawns.

The depravity and pleasure in the same account to dipleate funnel of market funds in the flesh hanging on the balls of telecommunications.

Satisfaction is Satan's name. They will steal and dehonor your wallet to commit fake Polish Prophets work done in your future's Jew's basement.

It was possible the work was done. I spoke prayer to a swamp of marriages and an unholy place. The answer was never reached.

It was a place for no marriage nor the place to hold in your heart nor the ring to hold nor a child to see.

The prayer speaker spoke to themselves. She was afraid of the horrors ahead to see. It was a place for no religion.

The belief was dead.

The marshes did seem to see the truth; it was built once on the mass graveyard cemetery of war victims' graves; the rich lord picked the names off stones. He built the empire for no grey man to see.

I was lost to know in a wooden built place of prayer I spoke to one true lord to see no grey man to lie.

I prayed but the words at play. It is a stronghold of blue and white on cold winter's night.

They stood in steel to sell their evil to laugh from us in belief. Satan's work was done here.

The old and trade.

A house of online sales.

The moguls.

They ship pigs and webs in Marquis delta steel, the studio of tales.

I am Martis Tampo and it is my fairy tale I twist and tell.

I feel like it will be like this.

The time to be like it is the truth. I will tell you my tale.

I have a best friend, Renatoaras, to tell the tale. He is with me.

I am here for you. We tell you the tale.

We are no grey man story.

We spoke our prayers for you to say.

It will be ok.

Satan's name was Mire. We call him Diavalo.

He was from Skouds; it had neither its name nor origin. He knew the sex and gore to filth the money.

We were two brothers monks chanting absolution from our template of wood we built ourselves. We could devote our lives to our lord. We could talk, pray and chant our wisdom in vocal chords to stop the evil from spreading the evil in the spirit itself.

I am Renatoaras Tampo and he in black hair in black wooden floor hut of prayer with only one window to the west for our best light. He sat here a little shorter than me in black gown made from wool. The black prayer beads were made from the same wood as our place of prayer to our divine and love symbols of our holy belief we devote our lives in here.

The forest provided us with wood to build and repair and keep us warm to meals every day on the table.

We kneel before our lord and the eye I had of truth observed the evil deeds. I found with my eyes the land we built our prayer, the work we did and the evil found in spirits to set depravities loose.

"We prayed tonight and we heard Diavalo calling our names brother."

"Yes. It was a great prayer. He stands up one foot up and closes his oversized black wool hood over his head. "I think it was Satan's work done here for those fools to fill the cup of silver grail." I continue to hold my hands together and look up at my little brother Martis.

Martis crosses his arms in three fingers under his armpits and along the way crosses the line below in a straight line over his solar plexus he closes his eyes. It reaches his belly and breathes out as he walks in. I felt relief for my brother.

We were in arms fighting the demonic creature Mire Marquis in his pornography studio set in white and blue warehouse from his online call sales were summoning in his Diavalo name. The storeshourse of lust and gore to our eyes. It was the evil spirits he built for us to find our redemption he spoke every time to our lord.

We spoke our prayers. The wooden hut cabin was square, the total darkness and single concentration for our obsolution we spoke out of our full daylight window. Every item was built of wood we cut and built in the middle of the dark forest we prayed.

We burnt the colour to charcoal black and wore the black robes. We were the black absolution ordin. We spoke our prayers for those in need alone. It was our life's devotion.

"Let's wash our hands. We finished our prayers brother." I stand up with him.

"Yes. We did well. We are a holy polish ordin of black absolution. We spoke our words to the neighboring country, Lithuania."

"Yes. I heard there is a gore and lust. It was in our hearts."

"We send them heaven wings when they break and spread apart, touring everything to nothing of their own."

"Yes." I can see Martis washes his hands slowly in our precious water looking me in the eye with his deep crystal eyes. We knew we have more work to do for our prayers to continue tomorrow to the gore and lust of the storehouse studio they call it love.

Our arms and bodies were covered in tattoos to one day we decided to join the monk's ordin of prayer. We buy the piece of land. We drove in the middle of the forest and buried our motorcycle here. We stood in our cabin of prayer we built with our own hands.

"Yes brother. I wash my hands myself. I speak those prayers nonstop for Diavalo and the demonic spirits he gave birth to." I can feel my hands overpowering my will and are joining together crushing knuckles. I am washing them. The good will and spirit held me here from leaving to see them and show them the old ways.

"Yes it was an old story of an old storehouse near the mill of Warehouse full of dead and bones they built their ill spirited empire." Martis spoke with me, stretching his arms to sides and smiling for the first time in a day. "I am about to start cooking. Will you join me?" He twisted his waist to sides, stretching his arm across, holding one hand on his elbow and swapping round. He held a light stretch before the chopping board.

"I loved him so much as a brother, a prayer spirit, a great friend and a great cook."

^.^

"I finished with her." I told myself it was a great business. I was walking away, feet to sides stiff enough from hard work, the fire in my eyes I held much more in my seed bag. I am Mire Marquis.

The sex was great from my sister of Ireland satanic club. Her legs wrapped around me for my final blow. I let her have one more child her husband can pay for, feed and wash its bump from diapers dirt. It was on live TV and I only cared that she wore her mask and I made my money.

It was an exciting TV show tonight. The old man filming pressed his arm to my shoulder I deep deeper in to let her steam out I could finish her off.

"Yes, it's great." I held both hands in a knuckles, elbows to the sides saying yes to myself. I walk up stairs to a changing room and showeroom hot must steam.

My mind held one bad thought in my head when I felt the twist and turn of wooden prayer beads in a dark room calling my name and asking me to stop. I had no reason it was for joy.

The birth I had for no reason was joy. I was from Skouds. The work was done in Klaipėda film studios in an old warehouse in white and blue storehouse built on an old cemetery. I felt great power seeding live shows in every women camera I was inside. I was Diavalo, the other names they called me. The true Marquis TV show.

"I needed my father but he needed a needle." I drop my top on the bench.

My brown hair Irish sister I take off my blue glasses. We are a true crime syndicate family.

I am his Irish sister. I remember his hairy chest.