22/03/2013 - REFINED IRKSOME

Refined irksome is a potent dumdum. His trousers flailed at the prospect of fitted fabric and hemp temples. He cured the handsome of their raspy injuns and great beasts that know the Valium Child. The livers and the livery and the muttering of childish tomorrow, how speedy, how speedy. His footstep quivers behind the numbered wings of helium and hosannas yet again. How the fever spreads with fiery vacuums or decompressed hunts. Drills of my orange question or the square tepid that know of the dais and the silverfish. He knocks on them all like a similar attribute to my documentation. It's rather sweet actually, in a drinkyourownfastfastqueenteeth sort of way. More and stammering and the abbot is here to belch a sunshine handiwork. The hair is grown by the hearts of wrinkling gnomes and screwed down pencil necks. Sky or scryers or sprayers or whetted municipals. Razzle dazzle all belfries, just as tall as my sliding quantum. The bird shit on the shoulder of a frozen gasp like factoid blues and swam scorpions. Etcetera as well as seedy undertones and fallen rocks of Rupert Welch. My wife and his wife do not get along over tides and sewage romance. Graphite beaks because nobody can refuse the gastronomic band under needful scanners. Home is a hominid homonym or a vexed radical. Advents for normalcy and normal bromine kisses before the haggard crews. Let go of my somewhat sufficient haggish browner, prodigal stone cold son of a bitching gun stick. Takeover, takeover, hundred and two. Samaritan samurai all like belongings of column crisps. Up to muster, down to monstrous vertical. The zippers pop and co-operative freedom fizzles out with juicy bile. Translucent morning, ringing the syndrome up for a quickie. It's not night so it isn't a booty call. Text him again and he will throw us both out with the laundered cash, stranded husbands and portentous clock hands. Thank you, Erasmus, for not rubbing it in any further than it needs to be hellish. Underside re-enactment with a dagger-like briskness. PE always uses bricks as it drops beneath the radar notation. How black is my sporty bag? Folded cloth, slinking brick, tasty burgers, murdering marks, cumbersome stamps. Checkers with moustache handles on a production line for directive thousands. Weekends spent backwards on an officious bench into it, out of it, along the sides that shouldn't be there. Air is not breathable on this terrain, my synergy is not wonderful or glorious but walking cowls. Hitchhiking south with a fucked-off brassiere that doesn't heat along the longest pinewood shiver stick. Keys and needles. Helping the end of a song to get back up off its nodes and do something about the hats that tumble like weed on a duck's armpit. He delivers frugal bludgeons as if they were mutually founded or respectable in certain circles. That's why he and I don't see eye to eye or leg to leg or anything but the crotch area. It's a manacle, it's a manacle.