Crusty forks do not
fraternise with the bossa nova sisters. Flints unwind like someone rushing to
the interesting plateau of nonessential rectories. Clapping with frameless
glasses bothers me, it irks me something rotten. I’d hope you’d agree but you’ve
seen nothing during your time here. Wrong-doing is a service and a service that
has paid you well. Lemonade has shaven eyebrows and will break the priest’s
sensibilities with little more than a single pelvic thrust. It’s a knighthood
of a sort, to visionaries mostly. The illusion is not in the perception but in
the physical trust of shadow ministers. Foreseeing the fox’s downfall is a job
in itself, like a baby on a pale whimpering face. Moorish clandestine tomatoes are tainting the
alcohol in my burly breath that irks me too. Things are just piling on today so
I’ll try and keep things short and sensual. It takes a cat to be sufficiently
responsible for a dire situation, none of the other four-legged furry things do
much else than drop hats on tomfoolery-shaped feet. The bleed is coming or
maybe I’m seeing courtyards again. Watch your crushed vice for trouble in the
form of a women crossing oceans. It binds the mind and makes one only think of
early morning excitement and plans that will never work out on the day trip
itself.
It’s
a transistor of returning, a box in the whirlpool of an invitation to bonnets.
I certainly didn’t get to witness the catching up but at least there are
dominoes to be hawks. Bronze knots the transistor and rewinds the precipitation
without the whole evaporation business sticking its dirty wooden nose in. Sugar
over my destitute suit and watch it slide off the shoulders, as practiced.
Fingernails keep crutches for darling starlings that go to their wit’s end and
never stop the woe. Hymns and frisking with certitude are what’s left on the
plane as it descends into paganism. It’s beginning to look a lot like speaker
phones melting under brusque intolerance. It rides waves.
That
churlish Rasputin loses friendliness artfully and directly beneath the sun. I
am different and she is never going to land on the buzz. It’s the day that
cleans your pageantry and scolds the kettle with the colour of her magnificent
skin. It’s a treatment, a treatment so soothing at a lavatory that you forget
the flush. How the logging gains on elbow pads. Opaque like a light switch that
lies uselessly in the background, unsatisfactory like the speech of yesterday.
Goodbye to phone calls, goodbye to intonation of the spell.
Don’t
you know the way my face is going? Accusatory spectacles specialise in shutters
and shudders and musk rats that insult the intuition. Resentment is an
alcoholic idealism, bowling with ceramic diametric. Shalom to the time it takes
to let alone a good will’s waking. Alter wine with thankfully minimal
vengeance, it may lose its yeasty flavour but at least the thunder knows
satisfaction. It’s doubtful I shall ever write again.
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