10/04/2013 - A GLANCING BLOW

A glancing blow to the ‘run for it’ and you can probably have it both ways. So many alibis go upside down in the face of topsy turvy sexuality. It’s a braggart’s wisp, the editor of normalcy and normality and so many floors going down. The doorframe is not a way to make tricks wheeze along the repertoire. The mind-numbingly banal roof is crashing down and bending unto the will of the pretext. My head is whirring and pretending it doesn’t droop dresses all over its madness or fashion, it really makes me supreme. Walk away from elimination and the left eye must come down just a fraction or the right will launch a career in espionage, dollop by dollop. People with desks are made of texture and distilleries that weren’t allowed past their bar exam. How the tune haunts the thought of never getting in, how it makes you meet the boom without a cup of coffee to hand. Not a day, not a day, not a day to be a controller without rumble functions or sealed windows to ridicule. Leave the levy to be rude and wet while the detectives file down the cabinet to make their clients bowl out. Three hours nod off to my prickly ears and frisk the quiet with half-gnarled fingernails. Solutions will need a few angles to become a straight thing, a quick phone call to Davina and her yo-yo report. It’s very high-profile, on a need to eat basis that requires classified sailor hats and whistling newspapers. I quit living beside the brooks in order to protect the washing machine’s little secrets from exposure to nitrate oxide. It’s a sarcophagus born too late, risen too early. The chains of days keep minutes on Mescaline. I struck down the swan with great, unforeseeable wrath, adamant that I would find epidemiology for fruit bats.

Opting out of cop out divisions like grinning chair legs and all of their vile lurking babies. The details rearrange insanity so as to make it a dustcover for my joy. How the bees buzz along without a hammer aside or a conjugal wheel. What happens if I never went newer, narking off the bitten mortuary for the mild. The phone rings at an exact moment and keeps your thought from sending waves to primarily oval-shattered munching rings. Three cabinets are no good for the outer clouds, like the third plank of wood to bring you morning writhing. Lasting miracles dematerialise the carpet of our magical nasal rectal amazement. Who could do all that to December? Why is this a textbook explanation? What are we saying to the artist? The killer wore gloves that he kept beneath the gun. It’s a grisly conclusion to draw, even for a Hispanic cleaner quotient. Freshened buckles curl out of positive self images and undo the puzzles of appetite. The power to be a surprise keeps me from clashing manic sounds together and ape calls that generally wouldn’t suit an environment such as the back alley of a garden state.