01/04/2013 - THE FOOL IS NOT A GRIT STAIN

The fool is not a grit stain, he is a champion of the panthers and cretin of tonight. It's no imagination that spawns this kind of malfeasance, it's a hot bed of llama retribution. April brings its little games but never spares the rod or holds down the charming. The days are like dreadlocks, pardoning the Whisper-Smith of all his walking. Such distances between here and that place, such stretches of exhaustion. Unshaven and brutal of nose. More power to him and his matchstick poison selection or, as you would no doubt have it, the playing field. Snuggle up to that concept and unify the handbags. All of our shrines are opening to the topic of dystrophy, breaking a window pane to let in the August light. The switch is pulling away and then the switch is pulling further away. It won't be long now, not for the foot-pound, not for the apprentice of one sickly radio broadcast. The creations rise to the thought of recreation and patent that thought for a later, more nostalgic date. It'd be sweet how they care but the monkeys just don't type anymore so no more sympathy from the greeting cards. Harsh, I know, but it needs to be delivered appropriately or else the kharma gets off.

            I sponsor this land with this fool's reference, I declare it open to his choo-choo train. Chow-chow and running off the mantelpiece isn't the same as working the horse with a ring binder. We are each of the police and therefore must follow procedure down to the letter formation you mustn't make conversation with. The bus is coming and the fool's time is rushing like a spout filled with hatred. I can make the blood fly in his presence, levitate when he's a mile away. It clots my leisure time but I do have a shop to keep up. Laundering the worm is a big old business, I'll give you it straight as the proverbial arrow. It would be demonic to start again, especially with nary a spatula to hand. Positively. Positively. Absolutely now and ne'er do well. Life was the balm and the foreigner wouldn't go because the fool wasn't Erasmus nor was Erasmus foolish in front of cameras. The white devil wanders around and drops its keys in many bowls with flagrant disregard for childish disbelief. It makes our mutual mother sad with the night nurse.

            You knew but never told to me that fear was fragrant, it has a spice that is a brand all its own. It winds me up how you found the fool down the drain before I did, it tears me up inside and won't let me grasp the pieces into a lovely whole. I'll surpass you yet though, the fool isn't just a trick he is a teacher too. He makes pancakes with lies and forgets his umbrella wherever he goes. You can pick things up from such a fool. You can pick things up from his wayward path.