It's not the petering out that
causes the cleavage to thunder, it is the daylight glow of devilish logic. The
trade union are notably uncomfortable with working closely with the
motherfucker brigade, the wounded half dozen that spend their time winding down
with dolphin fins and other politicians. There were well people in there once:
there were many chaps and lasses with smirks on their faces, giant smirks that
glimmered in the transcendental waterfalls. The flower show recommends the
matter be trusted to the capable hands of the Abu Dhabi Friendship Police
Department. The gunmen are everywhere and don't take too kindly to white sauce
on the chips. It's an elegant solution to a piddle of a evening. Economies
crumble and the microwave beeps for as long as electronically possible. The
humans, on the other hand, can go on for fiery months. It's a New York currency
market quibble, a difficulty within the quiver of costly arrows, a snarl over a
grandiose throne room. Dishes of centipedes, foot medicine and twenty thousand
glazed people are what's on offer in the kitchen just down from the throne
room, the third door down in this equitable hallway. It's just another case of
appropriating tasty fish with industrial scale. It's a diagnosis of dementia in
Battersea, a vicarage of the pilgrims from the storyline gardens. Cough and you
shall receive the foodstuff of frail teeth. Playing the scene for optimism
makes a perfect optical illusion behind woolly gazes and advocated deals. If
you really think about it, the slime is pretty much everywhere. The appeal
wears off like a knock on a turkey paste tube, like a glass off of Henry's ammo
belt. Howl for the pale skin and radio in the hair dye updates before modus
operandi gets called into question. Howl.
The truth is credible yet poor
in quality while we pretend to be so cunning and canny and encyclopaedic. The
language and culture is established by the dead soldier's shoulder blades, it
is defined and redefined by its French saliva. Erasmus pays his respects
regularly but only because his wife is very demanding on that particular topic.
The truth doesn't appear to follow the turtle's path, it doesn't appeal to
those who wear royal blue. The buffoon carries telephonic support on his
forefinger contraptions, that's why it tends to keep its hands in its pockets
and holsters. Some eight thousand angry Gaols are said by Ed to be Erasmus'
lost triumphant piano concerto. THE THOUGHT RESIDES. Can one fart anywhere else
but in the soul of the twisted alcoholic? Can you redden the no-point tweezers
any further? Can you keep the frogs down? Can you?
Our field is wrought with
supermarket trolleys and clay ambitions. We make goddesses from the cheetah
idol, we make it from the chippings of paint. How they cheat us of our
individuality? Conformity is still a known thing but all the eyebrows are
flashed and arched. You're upwards of nought. The sulking is too infernal to
think about at this current juncture, I'm afraid.
Our hearts part the rift and
play foreman to the terminally depressed but there is no simply get-out clause.
The toilet break is our only menagerie of solitude and a young man's life hangs
in the balance. Can we be so callous as to presume and fob off the credentials?
Probably not. We shouldn't have to undergo this trial but we do and there isn't
a damn thing the speaker can do about it. He's on suicide duty, wading barefoot
through the sandy beaches of delightful pleasantness. Such things are mirages
that only the beak nosed can navigate through. Success is a squad of groaning
and grumping and grouting while the significance of large hammers goes off into
the fading pattern never to be considered ever again. The beasts ride in cosy
cloaks, their diabetes parading around them like so many lonely beatniks. The
glass inevitably shunts off course and lifts the primer to the opinionated
level. Forced entry is a must in this state of limbo, post mortem is the only
way out of the grimy material. A kindness indeed can be exploited but that is
why humans are the most deprived and ill-fitting companies in the jungle.
Permitting the calm is purely handled by the Western-minded tattooed men of
contumely. There is nothing on this Earth you can distract from their forsaken
presence nor would the childish talons let you go off the rails in such a
frivolous way. There's nothing gay about the vintage promise, everything is
accessible to pratfalls and loopholes. Guitar strings break hospital beds just
as frequently as the weighty pock-marked shrunken aged. Dance is an outrageous
accusation when it all comes down to when you choose to be and how often. There
are so many permutations like bones in chicken.
Aunties do everything they can
but the gasps are patient and play hide and seek awfully well. The gripe is really
underneath the desktop in a hidden bar of electronic mischief. This is the
place where hearts get lost and the lovers of tax evasion get their eternal
rest. It's terrific to be just about anything but Jurassic or cherry-shaped.
Fear of lawsuits clone the hypocrisy that is inherent in the balding and
patronising. Glasses try their best but they just can't seem to clean
themselves as successfully as their cottony counterparts, the ones that live to
fit into tight spaces. Shuttlecocks make for overpowered nights stuck in
Darwinian theory, the tact comes with the tacked-on insinuation. Chase pages to
a mile away and what do you see?
The lift is shuddering, crammed
full of comedians going places they shouldn't really ingest. The blinking
sasquatch waits in loose corners, pretending to be a sandwich seller or
something far worthier of petulance. Mother said there was no such thing. She
knew the mobsters before they were gangsters, before they were anything but
hair product and cheap cognac. She let them choke her in their sleep.
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