Shit
the sauce with kicks from the knees and the frocks as we pass along the
elevator’s quizzical shaft. The daily yellow show fills each and every room and
makes the beauty of being done taste like ozone without good times to fail on
or say yes to. There are many ways to loosen the end, relax the wine glass and
outnumber the wants and desires of tourists. Lest we go down with the ship, we’re
going to keep paying the tulle and maybe, just maybe, the action star will
glance over our script and prepare us for the dramatic hair.
Type the Idaho microcosm into
most search engines and Veronica will wait and let the chisel make its own
symphony of tinkering and tickling sounds. The wakeful state is sixty-five
years in the making and as endless as the photograph of most brown sugar
products. Can you laugh harder at a challenge? When was the last time? Did the
officers descend immediately or sit until someone got their title correct? Such
a devilish eye in a supportive handgun. The casting votes are in and the punk
bands dispute the use of lipstick outright and without ceremony. All comments
will be summarily shot down for standing up in the line and walking distance of
reason because it hurts and we can’t afford to find anymore barrels of tears.
The continents shift and rupture and the superlative tense will just stand
around confusing the blues band with its flapping workaholic ethics and special
bucket and spade for conquering the universe.
The stabbing is controlled and the boogie is all right
and reflective of sulky shoes on the tissue paper ears of carefree individuals
with delicate trespasser hampers to hide in comfortable, frumpy clothes. Days
wane with the streets and back lanes of Empress impresarios that bespoke the
left wing creation act, the one that deserves no capitals or economic
viability. Standing close by are angelic figures with shiny red belt buckles
depicting the exciting midlife of quilts in South America.
Meanwhile the shipbuilders are replying to fingers with crocodiles of fashion
footnotes. This is my gin joint and I possess all the windows and mirrors and
choose to scent them with your vaporous insults and callous fixes. The men
leave discreetly with body-popping cadavers and barrier reef jokes in bad
taste. There’s nothing suitably stunning about ladders, I know this, but I want
that twist in my brackish water. The appealing factors will prosper when this
done and done again for safety precautions.
Even you deserve better ministers
and less contrivance where the mechanical union is practiced. Cover-ups and
conspiracies are making the job of living even more tarrying and no matter how
much you believe in civilised Nazis, you’ll find yourself letting go inch by
ropey inch. The salty socialites want to see the problems on the back of your
daughter’s hands. Come home soon for the fast bucks. Lessons begin shortly and
we can’t do this without victory processions and we can’t do those without your
daughters. Don’t break.
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