Right
one, Jimmy. Hang them from the rooftop, mountaintop and fucking drive a pile
through her middle. Manticore myopia will trust the frigate of sadness and wind
it up with various knock, knock jocks. Atomic Trilogy Jesus Wept and Throwaway
Retribution. I am the graduating legend of wishful wanking. Peel off the
decanter and thrust a knife into the belly of the coffee pot. Dearly beloved we
are gathered here today to make an aria of your spleen and sing the resounding mangled
screeches. Pay checks like turtles are one in a thousand wrinkles of the
pageant of a lurking life. Stutter was out of the door and down the stairs,
into your soul without cent between them. How climactic, eh, Mistress Sausage?
Cords of frosty thunder garments, stricken from the record of heavenly facile
septic sex. Running primordial heels into the flesh of wooded shafts or, as a
third of the Japanese would call it, a verse of interdimensional smell. Clustered
diamonds, cluttered drams, shuttered drawbridges. How the piece collapses into
forged documents like racist termites on a summer's melon.
I'm
going home. I'm going home. I'm going to debunk. I'm going to debunk. I'm gonna
fish. I'm gonna fish. I refuse to refuse to refuse to refute to refuse to subscribe
to Artful Beatrice. Most collectables in a window are edible provided you wear
it in the sun for forty eight hours and fling it at the magazine stand three hundred
and thirty four times. Idiocy will not be attributed to humour or the
structural analysis of our humbled drunkard ways. Snide my hairs into loose
fittings on a nasal equality between friendly nation that do not produce
toupees for the taps of fortune. Jamborees oh jamborees oh renal legality oh jamboree
oh playful thriller rings! Thank me again on Tuesday and I shall embarrass your
uncle when I see him next. Lanky gross negligent jasper girth signed borough Swahili revolution for our sweetest Sebastian.
Without
a doubt, without a cartridge, without a bratwurst, without a grog cannon,
without my, my, my, my, my, my, my strangers of bunny ears. Treasure the 1980s
with a feint of reflexive crudity, lightning strikes with light ferocity and
will not change its arc until the scarf follows course. Operate cautiously or
not at all. That is not an option for darts shaped like utopian conkers, not
now I haven't changed the sign. Deal with the cruise in a walking halo and its
crabby writhing sticker. Co-operative foreground busybody darling: that is now
your new predilection. Keep away the false legs, the prosthetic tomorrows, the
branded premium. Keep the kelp.
The
monstrosity of helmets is a springboard for banjo twanging and repetitive
mystery rungs. Home is best left behind for a wayward like you. Heed this,
respect that, go with earthly preambles. This is the beaten one simply from the
way it doesn't walk. It's like rape and dough and Sumerian trials only with
more fun squeezed in between. Trust my respect.
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