Pirates defy the
nonchalant laws. This is a fact. It is not worth checking. I have spent hours
and hours checking it and I have come to this conclusion. It is tidy. It is
fine. Let us leave it at that, eh? There's a good kitten.
Whimsical joker birds can be seen rimming the pacific
light bulb, provided that you wear skyline eyeliner underwear. This is costly
and will burn holes in your retinas if you don't like lead ball bearings. Sooty
sweetness is ahead of us.
Gargantuan pale violets have filled my vision. That
is also a fact. Prepare yourself for the onslaught of naughty words and a
barrage of wet blankets. Knuckles are dipping into loopy ponds. How drastic is
a jay-walker day. Who would pay them? Extortion.
Rosary beads make for fine handcuffs. I once ate a
whole one and I received illusions of Rasputin. It was a torrent of turgid
Thursdays. I grew legs and legs for those legs. No feet. True fact.
You know I'm not being honest with ourselves here.
This is the product of our property war, this is the way that I suppose we
always wanted it. Now I'm breaking boards with scientific methodologies and you
are out scouting for fiery trinkets. I daren't respect you anymore.
Hurt goes a long way when it goes both ways. Vessels
will rupture and crumble at the slightest motion of a squirrel kick. Nobody
sees it coming, least of all the cherubs that reside in the upper flats. Serves
them right, they never brush their teeth to my specifications.
I swallowed an egg cup for you. I dragged a child
from the ocean for you. I watched you turn into his lap dog for you. It was
pastime and I was drunk most of the time. You came to expect timorous embraces
at the end of the day. I'm sorry, I was being grim for the groom.
The tables are turning and twisting and writhing for
the grubby trombones. My fierce hair is sprouting forth and it's feelers are
responding to your negative vibes and the ice cream shard they leave behind.
How is it now that we know to go home? I forgot my home then I forgot yours.
I topped the pencils and zapped the hydra. For a
soluble fool it was quite a curtain dropping into breezes. The tincture is
brown and wears a corsair's hat. Blind buccaneers and their wayward diving
rods. The rot is grotty.
I lost my art at the age of two. You were probably
there, feeding me folded bread and telling me all about the shitty day you had.
I was too young to respond with dignity. I was too old to piss my pants in an
old-fashioned way. The spittoon was across the hall as well.
Prospectors kneaded my munching ideas into a big
square of viscous piety. It was a roustabout that saved me and I never freed
him from his chains. Was he wearing chains or were they party gear? Who knew?
No comments:
Post a Comment