Just
like a tactical missile I'll rectify any sort of deodorant commercial with a
simple winning smile with evil teeth and misty-eyed lips. The moisture could
fill a circumcision festival, it could cause most creatures to generate their
heat ahead of their schemes. It's a fleshy toboggan going downhill to see if
July is really as rapid as they say it is. They claim it is something to be
sniffed, something to be drank from like a poor man in the edge of scarcity.
They borrow this unhealthy mind to preserve her in her iron cage and all the
latex that surrounds her and encourages her disposition to prosper. Meanwhile
the swordfish go away to seek their northern fortunes, to plunder the
red-headed caves with saturnine connection blades. All that is left of the wake
is a destitute pardon and eleven goldfishes. It's a massacre.
Enormous
synchronicity blasts its sway through the barracks so that the samba can be
recognised as a form of US currency. This all takes place in London in case you
were wondering and wanted to form a spat with someone in your righteous
splendour. It's a typography too, I believe. Oh my God, test it! That's what
they always neglect to tell you until the very last minute of procedure just to
see if you're commonsense faculties are up to scratch and ticking away like
paternal love. Like so: go on, go on, go on, go on, going on, gone on, on gone,
on gin, genie, gyrating, genuflecting, Jezebel gestures in gerund ligaments.
Chance would have you say finer things in my presence but then chance never
wears a shirt of pants so who cares what it's mouth is saying to us. Our ears
are little buds that don't quite know what they're opening to and just go along
for the process until further and harsher instruction.
It's
a promise. That's a promise. That's a naked lady. That's a sunburnt dude.
That's a way over the sermon. That's a dormitory. That's a working staircase.
That's an it. It's a promise. It's a good one. It's decent enough when compared
to the salad bar generation that struts and gloats with the dastardly sun. How
the Science Hermits must scream at the point of seeing worms and dragons streaming
across their visors, how they must promise Erasmus their lives and monumental
misgivings in order to live in polite poverty. These intelligent, brave men are
fallen to a train wreck of masquerade, a smattering of vicissitude. Dear
kimono. Dear litre by litre by pasty container.
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