Dirty rotten druggist delights keep me alone in the bones of a whale.
The jaws of putrefaction part and dribble out birthdays and bubbling firewater
and the apparatus for breathing fatty fluids. Wedding gems turn with the
trepidation as the holding hands yank apart because of the arch beneath them.
There are no rights in this world outside of friendship’s restriction. Watch
the arms wriggle with stop motion languor as the helium builds rafts out of its
own superstitious follicles. The light is honking straight into the cone of
examination via the chamber of employment. There is no further use to the
cocoons we make so ghastly.
The rhyme is turning, binding the eclipse with our hand job specifics;
are we merely the approximations of a heavenly tribunal? The darkness has gone
out, the darkness has gone off. All that we find are footsteps on the concrete
of nobody’s coattails. Leap about all you like, the daydream will not suspend
itself from the almanac. Rest is an eternity of languor, foggy at best with coats
and jackets piled at the bottom. It’s quite comfortable, quite comfortable to
the sensible sensitive. Now the stones are gathering about your oil rig and
developing a crush on your capitalist pastime. The blue balloon sky is
boundless and stroking with its individual hairs. There is a gargle in this
singularity which is paving the way for future endeavours. It is horn-rimmed.
It is decadent.
Brisk mutterings keep me from losing my cool in such a harsh time, only
recently without my destructive temper. It’s like a hand tie for the shiny feet
of warped principality; it keeps me going upstairs regardless of the
opportunity. How the work cracks apart with lids and neck braces. Get back, get
back, and get the dress dragging on the thunderstone. The red nosed tribute
pours altogether with forever and doesn’t worry the boy unnecessarily.
Arrogance is the scarf we shot from a cannon that burst a retainer with little
more than tiger’s push. Concurrently I drawled our black sport and made it
spite the happiness that comes with having. Now the radio buzzes and leaves me
alone with my quiet little thoughts of the shogun and his smooth operations. So
many irons in the west leave hooves lonely in eidetic cheek bones.
Organic polarity from the semaphore. The phantom rock formation is like
a young actor’s nose. You found it ahead of the tearjerker, wearing your mother’s
silverware. It’s entirely spasmodic and lacks vegetation and cheery dialogue.
It throws the Californian spurious comment into the flags of tea bag
menstruation. Now and again is a place where then is more for lovers. I am
scared of star-crossed safes and uptown girls that abuse their frivolity. One
more day of cassette tapes and the harlequins that fling paper planes from
without. Help me with anatomical bullshit and the greeting cards they are based
around. Let me be another thing, an outing into the daisy fields of your version
of events. Let me weep.
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