05/05/2013 - RELENTLESS WEEDS

Relentless weeds are sprouting all over my devilled chair and it’s supposed to be cleaning day. It really isn’t fine to be in an unmade bed, it’s an allowance that goes without a shower and sweep. The cables are running into abandoned taxes and the grease is hilarious when you recommend the warp of death. The grins are brief and few and far between and up and down and pudgy in the sadly referred quantum tunnel. I’m scared to go outside the borders of my own memory, not neither the long term nor the short term, the freaky term. The memories come at me with super speed and incoherent principality. I expected to be accepted by the shotgun of directorial deadlines but they keep coming at me regardless of the wind change, the shallow water interference or the box logic. We did so many shoots it was illegal.

Don’t hold him that way; he doesn’t like pictures of cardboard in the western plenty. The wire curtains are turning into sieves with every curricular question run down by butt footage. I feel like marching ahead but the veterinarian keeps batting me off like some big day on the belly. We were friends with the cat moms and we cherished each moment of R.E.M. sleep and button-mashing. The waking shaking baking rafting competition to the moon provides a ailing solution! Overreaction is what we know on the grimy streets of Sheet October. The noises carry on like the winos bellowing them, they glaze over happenstance cobblestones and stow away with the dope. Everybody went to see the iron film in the bubbly concoctions of their foreboding and mulch brooding. Fantasy. Blasting.

The horn is blowing and, a hundred pages later, we’ll no doubt forget the timeline and offend the Manga Sensitivity. Brain farts are telling us to never mind and never do well and wear our door knockers like primary merchandise. Direction is what leads to beaten mugs and clangs against the depth perception of our home grown moguls. We’ll see, we’ll wish the host a day up against the wall with the laundered serendipity. How the shame lilts with sour dough balls and protrudes them like so much salamander defections. It’s truly a nonentity to be a man who inserts ‘how’ into both dinnertime and breakfast time conversation. It makes one tedious in the irises of others.

Reams are reams are reams are street people of the honking refreshment that is the daily newspaper piracy, making boats with the power of the mind alone. Perhaps some hammer tongs would assist distribution but then that’s only a friendly suggestion so please don’t strike me out with bald caps. I couldn’t survive the surplus, I just couldn’t go between the lines of passing cars. The jeeps are my planted feet and that’s why the persona won’t let me get anywhere in life. It really isn’t my fault, you see, it’s the lady who does all the dancing without strings. She’s keeping me dead.