23/02/2014 - THEY TIED THE PILLS TOGETHER

They tied the pills together and lit the flare as if to say that the men with their edges and their charging vintages will smooth down the palate and become truly foolish at coming-out parties. Get the good show and be liable to blow up with troublesome Glycogen. The cavalry is coming and belching Technicolor laughing gas to disprove the roulette table as an exhausting piece of furniture and not really a decoration at all in polite company and other prearranged circles of trust. The Indians are coming, all Indians over seven feet tall with their priorities in order. As you were saying, sir, you’re a-okay.

 

            Dive divine and be splendid in a bookish sort of way while the going is kind and the flame sticks are foreign damask and mere cupcakes. Nothing too spectacular when the going gets hot and filled with alright edibles and okay slurps. Isn’t that just the way they bubble cools itself irrespective of its mild attempts at goofy humour? Can we survive the Look of Job when he’s living inside his wife’s new glad rags during the weakening of the printed handle bars. Something about this entire scenario strikes me like a gong in the middle of some Mesopotamian palace, lost in all the gold and synchronicity.

 

            Typing out the deadline will suffer the silence long enough for it to get under your ninny nanny skin. The orange peel comes off like sunburnt flesh and you’ll just have to circle yourself and make the news in a populist fashion. They’re waiting to take the minus out of your factory setting and to restructure the earthly remains of your maternal grandparents. The paternal grandparents are the ones that nobody pays to see, nobody wants exhibited at a museum of natural history. It must be so hard to be a prince in such an apathetic pastry? A coot. A cutesy coot. A kraut if you had to have it your way but didn’t want to see the biases slip away with seat belt slipperiness. I don’t mind if lover’s remain, I just want a hamstring injury.

 

            You show ourselves up or else why wouldn’t you pilot an aircraft like something straight out of a Mediterranean cop show? The gun running is getting to feel dejected and quite partial to cream puff pies as it turns out. You’re eager, I’m keen and the whole citation is peachy if you’re really ready to deal with the rubbish and clutter and slimeball bastards that rise up out of both as if they really just want to prove you wrong about something while the quilt slips away and right off your shoulders. We at the mystery have no problems with groovy tubas but we absolutely draw the line at blurring of said line without customary permission as dictated by the boy scouts at the end of the corridor. These young sprites are spiffing in everything they dictate so don’t you go challenging them. They’ll get you, grab your lapels suddenly and show you enough.