03/12/2013 - THE RIGHT SORT OF PEOPLE

The right sort of people become the right sort of pupils but only when the fine place is visited and the embolism is taken roughly. Could we be another way of thick? We’re already Plexiglas by the same job but we don’t have to yield to the miles of sheepish beeps like a hearty breakfast would make transparency rich. Avarice is worth something to you like a cleaner on the mindful moment around the place. You realise that the formula invents red fervour? You accept the change of pregnancy down the ages like you accept the wake of a man in white robes and slinky vertices. Make thanks. Make planks. Have drinks among the cetacean biologists because they’re upset and perceptive. They’ll be flown on a special tab of locus wings. I could take those whales to the hard luck cases and stand beside them ditsy admirals all the remainder of the time.

            No humpback born in captivity has ever survived to properly receive disco limits. The pocket pager dresses and adorns the Lothario and I am all ears. The chuckles and the red shirts are plenty big enough for the truth and the Americans that obnoxiously enforce it. I’ve come back in time repopulate the species. How coy. How teabag! The pregnancy of the media circus will let me go, let me leave all noon tomorrow. We don’t use money in the Sniffer Dog Alliance, we merely accredit livelihoods to those who deserve them. The whirring is getting me rallied together but together is such a nonchalant sound in this podcast of cockamamie fish stories. The transmitter is classified and the shadow of a tree makes the lady in the pink petticoat look actually believable in a historic setting.

            Craft and crap and betterment and its Layman’s terms for being in the courageous park among all its accredited members making a few unrepentant tail wagers. The tally is too damn high for the status and the probably aches end to end with entropy. The gold earrings are worth every penny but the double barrel weirdo will ascend the test programme. It must be coming from straight inside the tracking port of the ship. What do you make of it? Can you see the intruder scoffing out the flames? I can take you to the man with marigold stand-up stairwells but he won’t be too kind to the good-looking perpetrator that you are. Freeze while the going is good and the checker service isn’t taking limes from the top. You’re through the short end of the sleeve now, stunning as it may be, and the radical conical security breach won’t allow you to make your usual dashing escape into jury duty.

            It hurts, I can tell from the way that you’re walking that it hurts. I can tell from the way that he is walking, the bank teller with the fruits in his dwarfish automatic. It kills him to do what is necessary in spite of the promising escort of deep feelings.