Ogling
in absentia. Shuffling in diametric fraternity. Brusquely acquiring sediment.
Prowling over egg shells. Smattering the hempen lungs. Heaving the yeasty pistols.
Matching the twin medics. Razing the futuristic breadstuff. Raising the
frogmen.
This
is the way that it has always been, a rub down in circles and nowhere to be
grater. Light frisks make the milk shoddy and fulsome and morons can only cope
with the after effects. It's a dismal failure to be alone. It's a Danish call
to arms. It's forever young in a field of annoyance. It's a handful of
featureless whiskers. How little it all matters.
Wearisome
laundry drags me with rags to the scatter combs while jousters joust in
frivolous lawsuits. The speckled espalda doesn't know riches from the
ridiculous and therefore will never acquire something akin or at the very least
near to heavenly taste. It's a tragedy to think otherwise. It's just plain old
'sulking in an art house' tragic. Caskets and blunderbusses keep me safe from
the threats that blank canvases might bring. They don't collapse quite as much
as they used to and that shit just makes me uneasy. If you were of the right
sort, I'm sure you'd agree. Maybe you'd use a little more tact and a bit less
fire and sing song. It's a story all about my sacapuntas. It's saying otra vez
to the like-minded simpletons before they do up their ties for a hard days
labour in the mudslinger county. Goodness prevents itchy back syndrome and Erasmus
is withholding the goods more out of spite than financial gain. Sometimes he
makes me so proud to be his son.
I
was watching a comedy once and it made me lose twelve minutes ahead of the
afternoon. I aged like a hipster, without the hereditary close-up shots and
fiery engines that roar and say naughty things about men who pout. It's perfect
and boundless like all things that make me intentional and filled with sperm.
Head for the station! I'll need to be outside for a bit, maybe externalised to
the shed. It's just wood and dissipation again, I don't even leave the masks on
in case I offend anybody with lactose intolerance, even the fidgety lesbian
precursors. Let me inform you, they are damn hard to please when the wraps are
all tucked and folded away. They leave nothing behind to chance or to his best
friend fructose.
Walking
home is like keeping fleets in your trouser pockets, it makes you alive to the
prospect of lazy humour or whirling eyeballs. It moves with the crust and
leaves behind only skid marks from a forbidding era of shapely division. My
discount stores suffer wisely in the face of ugly surfers and various other
blasphemous insinuations. My angels and burgers, the bugles are coming up cold,
coming up for an airy, breezy, windy altercation. My discography has nothing on
the tortured misconception of our livelihoods and their ultimate meaning. The
Minx prepared us for such long-listed tragedies.
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