Sphingosine
Kelly has to gift wrap every present tense conglomeration. She has the legs of
a tyrant and a sense of humour that is by no stretch of the imagination fun for
anyone but the border security that surrounds her flat. She is the sincerest
form of imitation, the game afoot in a test tube and defiant to the last. She
has sought after years of heartache only to find the depressing truth about depositions
at their best. The mongers are making hay while the sun shimmers and the day
that we call tomorrow is in fact a hen part for her lungs, another hen party to
reconstitute into her ignoble spirituality. This is an experience and a fry-up
at that, is that all right with everybody? The Roman numerals are making her
moody so try not to ask her about this matter so directly, she will skin your
doused mind with eight o'clock blues and calendar magic. It leads to a lovely
disco but one that you can't avoid or find a suite spot. The television is of
the inner circle, at her bosom and making series links with withering
remembrance. Sphingosine Kelly has a cloak for the heroic community so that
they will keep off her back while she sharpens the rest of her equipment.
You
know her. You think you know her from what she's capable of but the patter cake
surreptitiously gardens the tenderiser and girds her loins from eagle-eyed
gigolos. You heard me right. You hear the wind like it has anything kind to say
to you with a train whizzing past behind it, you act like you can hear a damn
thing and haven't once even thought about creeping back into the paisley just
to see if it still fits your consumptive attitude. You just don't have the
gumption you once did anymore. You lost it in a poker game with the missing
link and his artful gang of plaintiffs with their cancers in their thumbnails.
Treatments are occurring within your mind but the library doesn't open properly
till three in the morning. Sex and advertisement will do that to the staff,
they keep it real like fading footprints in the snow. Big batches. Broken
initiation. Just turn around and you'll see the work for what it is, a
hindrance on the sick and bloody-minded. Zen daily clearly. Ten years later and
it's suddenly your mother.
At
the same time he is at the beanstalk with his handsome features trapped in a
vice and the viceroy claiming his valuables as common property. The government
are reimbursing but are far from the great levellers they promised themselves
to be, they haven't even made useful friends with networking capabilities yet.
These guys are the sort of guys who sit in rooms for a day and wait for a pale
to land on their hands and heads to keep the silence from getting to them, from
milking their worthiness. These guys have udders of such bad colours.
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