Relax the steel for waking
up, bro. The camouflage leaves me distant to the good faith and interminably
ill in gearboxes with levers and hitter reflexes that access someone like you
for hammerhead science and dying for what we’ve all done for jungle girls with
squeaky voices. You’ve done many terrible things to enforcement of cracked
windows but the Hawaiian shirts are launching a very rich shit storm to cowboys
and their short-haired ringlets but not their long-burst gunfire. The squinting
chest sill will replace me with fucking idealism like it was always in the game
for black gloves to be used in dorky rainfall and other workplace scenarios
that hurt for little to no reason and leave a solitary rope swinging in the
aftershock just for the sake of the children and their chiding. We’ve won
against the angles and tiresome acts of big submarine dealings, how little the
sisters mattered when they flashed and flattered their guns with gritted teeth
and rosy make-up. Kill the shirt like volcanic fluid and handrails that support
inhuman sands that blast with orange fire and apparent apartment-sized humanity
garbed only in a sweaty grey shirt. Don’t give it your hand or else the black
gloves shall clock the gun and let ripples out of the ammunition bag.
...ALLOW THE MAGE, THE NORMAL
AGE, HIS MOTHER’S BEST CARDIGAN, THE PETTICOAT OF THE CENTURY, THE ARMCHAIR OF
ARMISTICE, THE BULLET CHILD, THE SHORTS THAT JUST WOULDN’T QUIT, THE SHOES THAT
JUST WOULDN’T LOOSEN, THE BUILDINGS THAT WERE TOLD TO KEEP A WATCHUFL EYE OUT,
THE ZIPLINE, THE TARZAN MOMENT WITH THE WOMAN WHO WOULD BE JANE, THE LOG IN
LOGARITHMS AND THE FOLIAGE THAT SURROUNDS IT ALL AND TOUCHES YOUR BACK AND OUR
BACK AS WE SETTLE DOWN FOR A PICNIC IN PURSUIT OF AN ANGRY PRIMARY TARGET. IT
WOULDN’T BE LONG NOW, ALL THIS SUFFICIENTLY REPRESENTED WITH EASY KICK BACKS IN
LINE FOR THOSE WHO WAIT...
The trees are yellow, the
book cover is of a woman who had nothing to do with the hiring and firing of a
gun-farming business. The pipes that wasted speed junkies treat us like things
without conceptual retroactivity Join up
and let go of the eternal US that inseminates flat tops into the future of
fashion trends. The yard is simply while we all make it out to be some sort of
grand overlapping of material and water trying to say things with barrels and
calling the woman in particular out if it hasn’t admitted that it’s gay and
weaponised.
Fall with water and nobody
gets much. Wrangle with water and the taste is in the tune but please don’t let
this conversation, this transaction of self-incitement go to your head. The lid
on the toilet has a hair cut and the hostess who usually organises and
stratifies parties cannot see past the crags in the moon. The cargo is
jettisoned but the pilot doesn’t like to be able-bodied anymore. He’s been
trying on new hats for dreary days on end.
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