She does a little dance and it
violates my principles. How catchy are her calves and the hollow thud I hear
whenever they slap together. The curtains are grinning and chewing on rope,
rather suggestively I might add. The felt is of the Borgia, the wrinkles of the
Ottoman. The teeth are tiny inside me head but I cannot help but bite my own
lips. Individually. Together. The blood tears out in gentle rasps.
Go easy on my soul. It requires
a fast reply and nothing too fancy squatting in the background. Too much and it
will piss all over the speaker phone and pretend that the fizzles are granges.
Memorise the devil's dilapidated quadruple baby bunch. The tangles are dripping
with poetic refrains and you haven't even noticed. Typical. Stereotypical.
Behold the sadism and forgo the
morgue! Quintessentially speaking I am not quite there yet and probably won't
be for some time yet. I wish you to bargain for children in the meantime, try
and sell them off to unwitting families that have plenty of basic solutions.
The golden corner is winking at the prospect. Justice shall be served that way.
I shall respond in kind in kindling.
You see them? They sleep in
rolling beds and despise the grovelling of carpet tiles with every snore. Alter
the grain and they might do something else, God willing. Then again they don't
really believe in God because of the fracture that exposed them to earthly
skin. It's green and it's not supposed to be so green. Ruefully they will
gather up their chairs and scatter them at the foot of a simple-minded giant.
Name pending.
Rupert is groping for supplies
right now and Gosforth seems the richest source. They have mills there that
jauntily rap at the windows of humble townsfolk, demanding in quiet voices. Who
knows what they demand? The ear only listens to the lilting tone and beckons
the yuppies to circle. Mercy is hard to come by when they descend; it is like
the feeding or the lisping kilts. Cardio-vascular romance is the one way to get
them off your back. They like the monkeys but prefer their toes to the rest of
their hair.
Zoom forth and we'll surpass
this protection and wander the planes of didactic hypotheses. This reminds me
of the bubble baths we used to have when the beaks clawed at baby cots.
Breaking magnets is last vestige of a dying planet on its way to Titan. Bruce
and Hugh and Sammy and Steve will beckon the van and tell you where to place
the final shot. The fireworks are intending to rise against the mobile anarchy.
It's bringing its friends so we might as well stay and see what happens as it
happens against the clock.
I have been sat on this fact for
a while and it's only just starting to go warm. Worms are frowning like
concentric circles in the joke that everybody recalls but not too well. How
now.
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