Hear the clatter, that’s the sound of becoming God’s protégé. Not a
position to be sniffed at, provided you can clarify that the man with the big
thumbs really is God and not just some throbbing melancholic. The mistake is
easily made and one not soon forgiven, some former protégé-attempters ended up
committing seppuku in the orange groves. The reason? Is that question ever
honestly answered by anyone but the gnat and its top hat brigade? They’re
generally slippery buggers especially when trapped within the bushels of
moronic decision-making. The machines may whirr but their logic can be broken
through the slightest whisper of carelessness. Their attempt is by far the
finest utopia, inasmuch as the cast are scorpions with rosary beads. The
guitars don’t solo for the deceptive decrepit creatures, they make their
screams and wails for the dead inside.
Thoughts that rely on chicks-for-free ideologies can cause the salami
of togetherness to fail rapidly. The amorous colour television comes crassly in
the night so don’t expect a tribunal to get away with the conceptualisation.
The phantoms are merely borrowing the burrowing technology in order to become
more proficient liars in their lairs. That’s the way you do it, not working for
the dumb blister persons. Those baggage handlers keep us from the gate keepers
and make the underside of our jockstraps yawn for deliveries. The truth behind apologies
is that we all must come closer and not exceed our recommended price offering.
Monsieurs are lurching all over the other places, making churlish comments
about angry policemen with curling top hats. You may rest assured that the
child will be fed according to the machinist’s specification. The timetable
has, of course, been up for twenty seven years. But the mayor has shown recent
signs of conspiring for change, of teaching the tiger new ways to complete its
bad-natured resurrection. This can only end in big tears of fabric.
You make me think of a man from years ago, a man who disappears and
always ignores the ocean with new-fangled internet memes and a penchant for
classical feminism. Somewhere there isn’t a high-pitched quaver to travel
across voluptuous voids and it makes the populace sad and murky. The change is
more in the information than the numbers, the factoids becoming a feature of a
condemned octopus quartet. It’s a graspable possum when phasing in and out of
the nether plane, it clamps shut at the very prospect of that sacred clatter
and clash we mentioned before. It wasn’t brief nor was it a cushioned
transcription. The writer, as always, knows how to trash a party with his
ethics and acknowledgement of wee hours. He or she won’t leave until you bring
out the liquor to the poor and porous. This is commonly referred to as the art
community with dashes of thespian thirst. Staying too long keeps the beast from
opening his waste paper basket all over the dank and pernicious. Rectal
thermometers all round or face the wrath of quills!
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