Hash it out
between the rest of you while I represent the elliptical digit and we’ll all
stay here on the outskirts of jail in term teasing. It’s just that the bumble
squires haven’t had a limpet. Foot the bill and have sex with your
tactical retreats and rolled up night cultivation for a while instead. That’s
the day I travelled in a hearse without a kiss goodnight at the door. I leave
snappy come backs by and buy with cabbie out of his equinity and hello with
op[en arms, the sunshine like a roar of wood imprecision escaping a boyfriend and
not being a baby to an armada to remote controls and their gargoyle daddies. A
massage like a joke makes life disgusting and deepening the frame right through until the art sculpture
gets told a bit or two.
He took a
photo of his shoe and trapped the wildebeest inside his girlfriend for all the
product placements of the village to see. He has little disregard for pregnancy
policy and the restrictions made on political prostitution. We all like the
facsimile but the fac-metaphor is really irreverent and takes all the piss out
of the three for ten deal. Building houses is exhausting work like fees to
nowhere climb or mischievous dish washers on their day off from pay roll. The
sun showers the day and keeps us all in the night while it does it.
Lovers in
between the bill of rights and the pyrrhic party hat are essentially caught
without being told why their monotony is to be rendered punishable or why the
celebrities are coming out in droves to condemn them for their elasticity in
the face of global disaster. Droves and droves are what we're essentially
talking about here, blue pens and microdots. The cat videos are said to be
reacting with Jesuit calmness and will not back down until the end of the next
rock number which is scheduled for a month after the pencil sharpener dulls its
blade on a hairpin.
The heart of
the universe is brimming with such tabletops and finger foods that we can
scarcely respect it's silence without the aid of literary fitting and some
substantial tailoring on top of that. The dawn breaks the buffalo into its
street clothes. You just happen to be brain dead when this occurs, weeks and
weeks of merchants have tried to cop a feel of your swastika.
Such a busy
morning for the shatter point to be found and put in place by the Conservative
Party of my Regional Bowels. It kills more horses than the prohibition did
apparently, for which I am unduly sorry and searing with jealousy. Don't look
at me whilst I'm slurping my spaghetti, it puts me off the Bolognese sauce.
The grand
game of polo lives on in the journalist and that's because she didn't get out
when she ought to have done. We're weeping down the corridors with our pooches
sniffing the underlay for butter stipulations.
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