Calendars revert, revolt and divert and intermingle with the
outsider to form a badge of trust and
inflexible vowing. It culls the midnight
air with light switch misery and ties the trial together with bits of string
and kettle wires just to show that it can hold stuff in its natural state. It
creates errors, establishes aches in
the system, bugs in the pedestal and all
other miscellany. The world lets loose its information and undergoes
a thoroughbred change in lot and wattage. Grandmas become a much-loved food
source and communities
stop minding their gates and their ladders for just a
midlife. The landlord has been here for months, rectifying
a colony of
rhetorical devices just to fill out the caves.
Sponsors
are done numbering their projected product placement. The favoured question
becomes
another promise of crazed glaziers invading root beer factories with
vampire strength. This is connective
tissue, an appliance for flowery smocks
and their red-ribbon wives that hang off all their 'marvellous' ideas.
Within
seconds, it can become a turn up for the books and then devolves into a chance
of boiling and
broiling and various other heated calamities. Human flesh ashes
at the surreptitious touch of just one of these
butterfly wing emergencies.
Throw away all neatness just like the gay abandon that people supposedly still
slog around with them these five minutes. Rescues here are not worth the
discussion, they're just a
breathalyser test for yeasty brains and chubby hooves
and all their counterparts in various realtor realities. It
will definitely
happen to those who aren't, again and again.
The
cricket game on the shoreline is a lie about a lie lying on an exercise in
routine. The snap and rattle of wood on leather will turn everything immutable
into something fraudulent by comparison. This shoreline smells distinctly of
chlorine and the sweat some gentlemen get when beating their lovely wives. As
times guzzles their youth away, the detention grows more and more concerned
with isometric palaeontology. From now on, life everlasting will engage the
readership with finger paint. The readership is mostly comprised of marmalade
lemurs and their sugar substitute cousins from the Western Himalayas, the
creatures with the wide cars and fast eyebrows.
Living
long has come into its own and it appears has managed to metabolise the toothy
grins of mongoloid skull shells. The helix runs off with its numbers all in a
tizzy and whips the concrete matter into a creamy soufflé. The bowlers are
registered forth and at the ready for freckled turnover and bespectacled
turnaround. The business compounds harpoon language into tight-cornered boxes
filled with football manager stunts and horrendous hair stylists who run their
profits into the ground and through the substrata. There's nothing more tender
than the sight of sheer fabric choking the wrinkled fellow from politics as he
tries to involve himself with broadcasting past his useful hours. The allegedly
sexual dreams of foam will follow him as he straddles the graves of his
constituents and sons.
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