Explain to me why the redeemed woman weeps as she reaps the dirty race
car. It isn’t a normal way to spread cheer and divest opportunity but the
exhaustion has all but shed its beard, I reckon. Allow me to be the one who
strikes his light against the cold Irish underside of a quarterback, slipping
forty hundred bucks into his nativity pouch. The Punjab equivalent would be
catastrophic to say things in a sorry tone of voice. It’s time to tamper with
the habitat and see what sheds its whites in the resounding echo. This banner system is rife with possibility,
practically wriggling with funeral cakes. The dalliances we Jewish heroes
pretend to keep the ladies in pink dresses content is what’s really burning us,
grinding us up, turning us into pure, unadulterated meaning. Show us the ropes
and we’ll board obedience like a drunken fist listener.
They told me he became a man with a malleable face in order to preserve
the deerstalking tradition set in stone by the prosaic mutterers. These fucking
buttmunchers are too busy pleasing their elders to consider we still possess
the pool cues our father’s pressed us with. Trust is a hard and blatant
commodity when paternal love took its eyes off of the neon. They made light of
Jesus Christ, sapped him of his winking xenophobia, marked him for greatness
despite his squiggly manhood. Wear a scarf today, deity! It’s freezing the
branches out there! What do you hope to do to reinforce our mastery? He chose to
makes u bleat, of course. He made us look like furry blurry princes, set in our
methodical humping lengths. It was as he intended so, hey, let’s go up to the
mountains to see the pussy go dead and deadly. Trees teach obnoxious golf.
Let’s hunt the bunch and grate their fucking nuts, charm their dipstick
hearsay into wanton axels. Let’s kick the starburst into submission through the
power of Ruskie singing. Let’s smoulder the hats with great directors standing
in for kindling. They told me I was funny and just had to die. Who would know
me so well? How can I sob without fear of walking away? You know what, go to
Helsinki. Never.
This crust has known me for a long time, it has often spirited me away,
sponsoring the distance like a pusillanimous truepenny. The days of my treading
are numbered and bookmarked for the centuries and diamondback decades to come.
The caption will read ‘Good to within a inch of poetry’ and I’ll know just how
to react to that sentiment. I shall stand up and applaud my weary bone
structure, my glazier and the rest of his hulking family. I will then proceed
to bowl myself into the universe, shunt and curl into a sweet velocity that
tears the profession of cynicism into remnants of its cobbled together self.
Who knows if I am a real person, who cares if I’m a likeness? I’ll blaspheme my
way north.
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