Milkshake
hindsight and the hype is all right, give height, give height. Be civil and
civilised and evil like spaceships that set you back half a million green ones.
The craggy ones are always unexpected and heterosexual with no news about the
warfront. Honesty is the belief system, the doctrine, the reason the minotaur
has been living wild in the house for lonely blonde women with red hats of
companionship. Such culture shocks hire protestant prostitutes to prolong the
loneliness with cervical Crystal Meth that picks you right up. God no. God
know. Safe and sound like monkey business on rich folk’s buck. Let’s go way out
on a limb with a good plan and a perpetrated need for cloud formation and
sadistic drinking styles. Make up your mind in a while, if you think it will
help the midgets bearing epigrams and sore crotches that let go of coronary
espionage. Go straight to the outtakes and don’t let the green room hit you
with the fucking wastrels of teary flop tops.
Love
means never having to find your husband in the police station filled with
hunger and vitriol and film titles with ridiculous numbers and whatever it is
that keeps you single and footloose. I could make a list from a book, of books
that go on for list lengths and mighty air traffic control operations that
dusty the ground to get you out of the fucking way of female police officers.
You all right there, love? Stop picking your ears for the city boys and brief
extras that walk on to the set with floodlights reprising their pursed lips for
a second death. It hurts to live and the cold glow of yellow merely learns you
about duffle coats and the crazed abandonment of rain in fiery season.
Here’s
your gin, gents, here’s your genesis in poison that shags with contemplative
moves on a hamstring board crammed full of bleary-eyed Irishmen who fill their
bellies with the felt off of pool tables. Back off, fishermen, any signs of
rushing will expose chests in denim. Run for tests. Shrive the pub curtains.
Get your hit now while the party themes are born aloft the flutter of flags
that trail their tripartite of colour psychology. This saint creeps up maudlin
surfaces and tends to expose Malibu
from the Coke like Tom from Jerry. What’s the meaning of suicide, the real
meaning that policeman keep from us with their veiled overbites and
puffy-cheeked cynicism.
Whores
are taped on drinks and thrown about the room to test your knee-jerk breaths of
air across a hindsight chessboard that brings out the child in wheelchairs and
the ghosts from everything else. Poor confederates, they get the shambles like
pennies from the night, stacked one on top of the other like pint glasses. Now
is the time to meet the ones between us and the blacker jiffs, trial and trying
takes us all the way home but makes snide understatements to clean you off
guard.
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