The morbid end of the saw made it for me.
It made each constituent, each sorry soggy part, each limb that fitted a body
of hills, each trimmed simile. They never said they were jolly or musical so
the phosphorescence went on and on without check or timely responsibility. The
bells chilled the backing choir and made up sexy lies to reach out for crowd
sourcing purposes. But what could I do? What is the easy case? Do they even
bother with soft and cool heroics that lasted through the ectoplasm of
curmudgeonly repetition on the latest limping website? Don’t bother. No, they
just don’t bother. They just play their guitars and pat down the semantics
officers of the square. None too politely neither.
Drum solo.
Warty words come tumbling
forth from the lips of elderly Spanish gentlemen studying their oppressive
books. Murderous methods cross their minds but only in the split second that
they can’t conceive of, the melancholy of sallying forth into unbearable youthful
debauchery.
Print more than one copy. The
truth is a trumpet in a strumpet. Heathenish.
I am transformation. Destiny
is the wind. Other subliminal chat up lines exuded from the glorious hard heart
of political advertising. Virtue is a commodity that we all deal in, the final
expense me all expect receive with cud on our teeth and parted reformation
chucking our chins. The rosebuds grind down and bring you right back to the
point of the song which everybody forgets as they start to wander away from their
glasses and glasses cases and all other forms of real life screen wipe. The
tune winds us and prepares us for shadowy thumbing.
How soon the course starts up
in the thick of it, how soon the serious haunts start to occur with hanging,
banging and chiding of the middle ground. Me and you – that’s the occupation
fee for the shaky rocket that we summon as love. We never gave each other
reasons to live, we just insisted that that was somewhere down the line like
delirious heat or lamp light in the dark. We took it for granted because we
could feel it on a sensual level but who goes by that really? Make time for
storage, prepare for simpatico. Just be prepared for excessive amounts of room
and flaps in your schedule that channel their own inner-wind in a really stupid
fashion. That’s the rage apparently.
Drum solo underneath the
carpet.
We stopped being on the guest list forty
thousand eras ago. Wanting to be something other than otherwise is the ultimate
ambition of all superheroines and a few collegiate superheroes as well. The
werewolves are unleashed at the very varicose veins of this moment to ensure
the resurrection of a thousand blithering heart liberals. It's a numbers game
and we're winning our right to lose, we're making our innings up as we go
along. The cherubim and seraphim are colliding with visions of topiary and
tapioca tempests. The teeth meet with a web of computers.
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