Grappling
hooks are for rapists with little to no body fat. Did you know that yoghurts
are the only things to truly cast aspersions? Did you conceive that the trouble
with today is that tomorrow never got a chance to pull the panties out of the
crack? How the gherkin revolutionises the flashing shields! It makes me proud
to have exotic chills and no receipts to pay out of some loyal obscurity. The
drums are becoming cables and that is a project unto itself. The real reason we
ask for silences is to retain book covers before the transform into dusty
sleeves. The sand gets up the fabric and won't cling on properly until the
utility reimburses itself in a vocal manner. We cast plastic sheets over
everyone who doesn't wear a sirloin armband. Splashing out the skies shares
impactful similarities to ticking clocks and masterful loins. The stegosaurus
becomes a country in an overnight conquest and there is nowt to be said in
defence against the rising tide of the last minute to the hour. It's perfectly
ergonomic.
The
campus comes from the derisive tin merchant's workaday plans, the ones he drew
on fly charts and his secretary's underwear. Breathlessness is WHATEVER in a
world filled with PERMENANT, or so the princess says on her day's off. The name
of the show is DELIGHTFUL DETRACTORS and the hands are yet to be washed to
within an inch their unnatural lives. It's a plosive that hums with a drawl all
over the world and maybe through the belly of a heretic's nation. Radicalism
always said it wouldn't leave the trousers to dry in draughty rasps and I
suppose now we've had it confirmed. I thought they'd cast a shadow, I hoped. So
what do we have now? A yellow research assistant is a far cry from the
treacherous days of our wonder years. We see the haze now and that's all we can
think of. It makes me a kernel among the cold and drippy. How the wings emerge
to spread themselves in an indelicate delicatessen. It's yummy and filled with
face paints of all sizes. And the razzle and the dazzle and the vajazzle but
not the rainy destitution. It's an
earthen production and one that rarely ever gets counted in Munich: it's just a
delight to view mechanical dinosaurs tramping across the mulch and green. It might
though, it might just be.
It's
Erasmus on the last train to heavenward sex pots or the central divergence
agency, just follow the tracks to their monumental ear flick. It stops at Leeds
and moves onto Mercedes from there, all the way to the magical rumpus room. It's
frantic, oh bologna it is the very spectrum of frantic! It might just ruin the
boiler with its rusting monotony. The joy is slurping through the cracks of the
tummy wish fund like something out of the window locks. Life in the black space
is perfectly charming provided you watch your language, dear.
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