Spot the moan spiriting the
terrain away into a hubcap of prescriptive language. What does it even feel
like to do what a did does whilst wearing a didn’t on a daring day? Rape by
half, say most chaps with egg on their beautiful knuckles. Nobody can trust a
humiliated man who doesn’t even play a courtesy guitar and well they shouldn’t
because he raises some bad juju to prevent the rest of us from getting along.
The electric brush is whirring out a rocky reference formation through the
metaphysical oust of coughs.
VESTED INTEREST
Some things just simply get
discarded when the game is trapped within the salted confines of a medical
store. These soft shoes hurt the back without even dusting the crops. You wait
right here, says a chap from the opposite end of a fish tank. The operative ‘You’
is in fact a lonely man with a busted lip that kind of resembles a girl’s when
in the incorrect shading. Some cigarettes burn out raggedly like pants losing
their multitude. The inoperative ‘I’ just copes with pneumonia and has no
trouble besides this solo point.
LAY BACK, COUSIN
I call it a motherfucking shame. I call it like it is
because the split-tails all succumb to my way of fiddling.
Switch the perished department for the plush miss
while her sisters and cousins whimper in misty fog and cold, unconquered
ground. All I want to do is get you well and talk great care.
It helps. It wakes the sobbing from the house.
GASP.
Gasp.
Gasp.
Gas.
Gah.
EXORCISM OF THE FEVER
Breathe now in cool conscience and the fear of the graveyard shall
mould you into a devil in some undisclosed sexual adaptation. The orange grove
is just a little beyond and you can find all the stuff in the soiled shed for
the right amount of travel payment. So come on, screaming Mimi, come right out
with it whilst the audience consists of ex-lovers and laundry detergents. Foes
come and go like the voices of little old Blues drummers. No words for the
percussive, no words needed. Just touch the face with the silver ring and sooth
the shirt right off of your clothes horse. Just like that, in good conscience.
SAITH
YOU TO BIG-LEGGED RUNNERS
Run
around midnight and all kinds of strangeness occur to show that you can’t just
chain the madness as you would some bossy gambler. Tell him what you really want
from the day trip and the lunch break might just turn up. Whoa, whoa, take it
easy now; you’ve been laid up for two days, stale but stable. We’re feeding the
beating with Ronnie, with his referees and owing to bested metallurgists. What
breaks a sweat, what needs to be righted, what needs to become the underside,
who do you think you are? Sam Hill. Gordon Bennett. Stay here awhile, as long
as it takes for God to see fit that he’s put you in my path to empty two thirds
of the burden.
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