Don't simpatico mean nothing to look at no more? I have just
the thing, an elixir made up of a thousand smelling salt secrets that marry and
merge into something nice like an old-fashioned bistro. Let us go farther than
the inside this time, let you make it your business with a green neckerchief
gracing your willpower. Promise me that you won't fight with honey and well
will be eager enough and purposefully so. I have a sixth wife to deal with and
I haven't even met her husband yet. Fifty dollars. Geez. Does any person have
any present mind with forewarned kisses in heap steeds? That breaks with the
lie and love might just thumb itself out with a gardener's glove. No I won't
holler while the babies are so near to the skid mark, you're all welcome here
until I can come up with a finer, sleeker excuse. My umbrella is up in the air
as of now.
Beauty
is playing with the referee's dive bar, curling it up like an oily basket on
the back of a horse rustler's corpse. Missiles make the dresses look fine and
GASP - what do I care about changing, charging, channelling? I'll brush my hair
and start over all again with the bristles and the romance that comes off
between them. Many a new day will make me glad to be a hired gun who realises
that July is unduly misconceived. Armouries in sepia, in sweetener as I weep
over doleful red suns that sandwich themselves into orbit before deconstructing
the underwear of igneous rock. How now, drawl of an Irish forester? Does thou
read graphic novels in the pantry? Out of shame? Oui. Bon.
At
least the gingham is out of the cupboard for the time being and all the women
are beginning to wear out their inner turmoil with brilliant compilations of
the humane conditioner. Pleasure finds looking back reprehensible for blue moon
measures to observe in all the shining of pink blouses. We're in the river,
soaking in the river, heading out for an open road in a hasty case of sad news,
the kind that trickles into rabbit hunts and too bad. Go back to your word like
an insider trader and you lie on malice for the sake of the pretty peddler. You
just take care off the starboard bow before the piddly camera cackles out of
focus and into the way of some oncoming storybook. Mine would likely float away
with all the snappy lawlessness, it options like a hamper. You got so old and
lengthened out your visceral tone. I reckon so, I rightly do.
Yuletide
ugly rumours in quiet, on the quiet, for a gist, for a do, for a don't, for the
size of a soul. People will say that we're in love with birds of paradise bang
on Election Day 1. I'm off the cycle, I don't know much about you but that's
set into my wishing system and its overheating something precious.
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