This way out of a
balding man’s handgun, following the quivering line of a half-forgotten,
half-chewed bullet as it flies to wicked laughter. Let’s go while we’re centred
and in some Australian’s perfect place and let’s watch the gale wander into the
eye socket of a bleeding mage. The day is nothing to the piano; it is a
concierto that reviles the lino and the headband and everybody else that is
without a mile radius. You know what we’re doing, we’re wiping scum from the
underside of her cheek, and we’re seeing her at her most restless. The ecstasy
of pepper makes the marriage seem fitting for the first time in a lifetime of
award ceremonies. It really doesn’t make you feel appreciated considering the
shape of pubic imagining instead it keeps you following the yellow vine with
the husky vocalisation. The parking spaces it hides in its future mark the
trees with superstition and cause deployment of the bandages. The fiscal hair
of our neck muscles is a reminder of dance that wasn’t had in the forests of
kidnap. Fate is filled with bodily fluid and stands ready to reimburse humanity
for all its prideful troubles; it never really ends at one point to move onto
another.
Escape from tree bark
is the real honesty of immigrants from the matchstick box, the ears and the
statement of valour. Please don’t run for the sake of dignity, appreciate the
cruelty of a misplaced barrel in a misconstrued anal passage. Music makes the frilly
pictures and allows the chant to come away unprincipled. They have no reason to
miss the drugstore victim; they have no static to bind the earring, no demon’s
horn to mask the tribute. Smoke is all we have to play with, smoke and its
riding horses launching from A to 31. Baloney sandwiches are the commodity of
this stalker’s wisdom. Promise not to cry and the preacher will save you from
the wigs of repentance. It’s scary to think how many times this line will pass
down the centuries in order to become something ethereal and filled with
clotted cream. It would probably stop the ventricles if it didn’t bust apart
the secretary with its irksome stare. I might have been watched by an oink but
here’s a real prediction for you: throwaway cruise ships are the feed of
concrete monsters. Watch the metal ground into pasty white boys.
The cops are castrating
the vermin of the widening doors, falling on broad shoulder economies to make
the starting bits meet in dangerous fashions. It’s a holistic tragedy to be a
patch of cloth: the mirth is what we withdraw when we spend time indoors whilst
our other halves meet for casual coffee arguments and extra-marital explosive
fits. It’s the right day to be confidential and the real danger is not of hope
but of dog collars that don’t wind round properly. It makes me into dialogue as
a handle for poster technology, an unnecessary point of no return.
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