Borderline devils and nothing else. Can you see it? Can you
see it again? Wishes are like legs, they flail about when faced with fascist
knickers. Brown and crouching alongside a desolate bridge. Brigands, all of
you. Vile and tepid darlings that refuse my refutations that bind the satchels
with deadened leaves. Go with gardening robes and make your feeble promises, go
with trowels in either hand and deliver the sacred jewels of the human
condition. Scribing with glaciers is an imposition on our staples and various
habits. Test tubes and reflector glasses for aggressive manners. Fast forward
to trauma and yodel oh so lightly. Disturb our shaky chin and bleed us to
subzero depths. To reach the throbbing lightning and clutch the wristbands you
must crawl and tinkle over perjury. She splits her wings and wears the hair
before the tartan banter. Loony glances at unfurling beards and oh the banter!
Tears and fists as red as dawn, that is the place where I go in my localised
wheelchair. Bubble baskets for your thoughts, I'll let you borrow them like I
did the Boron. The hairline fracture disposes of my tawdry sundry bowling
tomato. Hospitality and phonics glisten ahead of tomorrow or so the nihilists
say. Bullet got my necklace and ripped it from the spindle so that you can
thwack it beside your prognosis of bloody hell. Cardiology and hepatitis storms
are pointed ears for the sanctimonious dead. Ministers of Drought have their
green eyebrows and creeping moustache. The outskirts prowl the apron strings
and hesitation stands between us and the quaking fellow. I can see purloined
brickwork, fidgeting equations, gilded dexterity, crackling glass, the pounding
of pounding porous things. Ordinary comb-overs will stretch at the sight of
these herculean presidents. How the unhappy pick up their feet. How they tread
and pretend it wasn't all a polite clap. Mercy and I can shake hands but the day
requires my magic pass. The swimming is naught. Lifestyle is preposterous.
Today is a figment of naughty boredom. Pull out defiance and watch it squirm in
all the French hokum. The baggage and the branches and our writhing with poles
up their arses. Brass forget-me-nots rain down on the brave and egregious akin.
Blood stains on the hand-me-down. Regress like the tortoise and his luminescent
crowd. Quiffs and dresses and liposuction: THAT IS THE SOUND OF THE FALLING CHEEKS
WHEN A KNIFE'S IN AN APPLE. How dreamy is a clandestine bin liner borrowing the
leakage of our prayers! Blessed are these vein gropers! Thou art fetching among
all this tinsel! Promises, promises, promiscuous preposterous. Let us exchange fudge for demolition. Sound
good? Of course, they wouldn't know an electric oven if one came over and shot
its infantile diaries. The pope wilts like a proud pipeline and will not accept
the exception of his Molotov municipality. The wash and the drink are a merging
of the ripened ripples and they prickle the erasure marks of a lost deity.
Something Viking, I'm sure.
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