Upon a knave, I played a pipe with
only the ghost of a lemon-scented memory at my side. The Witching Hour drinks
bitter chocolate with its Japanese fists as we gladly thrown on chainmail. All
my paintings will be wedged into paternal wickedness and made to shape clouds
appropriately but I will budge and speak accordingly. Is it the king or the
king's advisor? It was fortune's intrusion that rang these palms of
intervention, stub by modest stub. Timeliness is raggedy and so we exact
assurance and encourage it to become merry mildew. Kill the pearls and you cut
the lady dry as shreds in the full-tongued moonlight. my trough is tardy for
the sake of fighting off the visitations. It bends the eye into wayward curls.
Muddy confessions spread by clefts and resolve only the most fallen daggers.
Learn the bloated rhyming couplet as it unravels into a craft.
I
am the power and beard of the Endless Council, providing forklifts for the
crudely drawn and otherwise disadvantaged. The dustbins were evenly split by
the massacre and only just set aflame to become a multitude of floating gloves.
Alas the messenger wears a bubble of coats in order to disregard the
unthinkable uncle without the interference of a stony tablet. The horses come again
to kiss the knuckles of gnarled knaves and all their comical clapping. Why do
roses beget space travel in thirsty-faced pools? Who would even know in this
slimy climate? Armed and ready for proud vines to come forth in naked
shipments. The storage facility chooses clamminess over fortuitous methodology
and rosy-cheeked counting. The true judgement lies in the devil's stories, not
his little tales of battalion sorrow. That hair is gross.
And
the ashes cum through broken windows and bind themselves in the many unfinished
quilts of Grandmother. Her hand has turned towards some such poetry that the
stems become a pretense to late Gentlemen of the Seventh Row. It is, of course,
time to become grieved and thoroughly insensible to thence. Now the money keeps
its own counsel out of disrespect for the pansies that call themselves roofs
and bonnets. Immortality is stuck to the back of a post-it note, describing
whores in streams, moving them into babbling cavities. My hands are drowning in
lonesome modicums, trying their best to sing the ditties of grave-digging. How
absolute the clown blasts its logic, through both the cannon and the glorious
scope, hither and thither. The jester throws the everyman's back out to the
whine of chimes.
Pollution's
the Catholicism of caches, the rosemary of blunt force trauma. I prithee the
connection is becoming a modem and a router all by its lonesome. The dog has a
day release from its owner's kennel so he may see the rudeness of my pretty
criminalities. This crown is purely conjunctive in relation to the gender and
fluttering familiarity. I'll sooner cut the throat of that senile pulp muncher,
to teach the sleuth not to wear his head backwards and beneath the unbridled
coat of misfortune.
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