Fat waste in overalls makes rings from gangster ambitions. Frigid
country values make the little French women scream and flick their hair like
concertina handcuffs in a creaky breeze. The smacking around is a broad statement
to make on pert plumy lips. Where were you supposed to meet him? Which vehicle
prevented the hearing from happening in this statue exhibit? Our apartment,
where the 48 hedonists go to cast tissue soldiers in undelivered package roles.
The doors are holed up in inky warehouses, the sort of place you go to run in
flatfoot murderer measurements. We could walk right past the girl to the fat
boy and break the fists of extremist mercenaries. Isn’t that rich enough?
No paper doll can stand up without a valiant bodyguard to rise up the
hairnet, to cool down the carriage in degrees of sunshine. Ammonia. Keep. Me.
From. Niceties. Keep. Me. From. Nana. She stuffs her face with deportation and
white shirt ecology. Happiness sees illusionists clink glasses and trade blows
about worm chow and guarantees for laughter. Weekends in tartan coop up on
boats to the southern states of Methodist Methodology. We could maybe make up a
run as we go along but the sprint feels so much truer than anything these men
in hats and moustaches could ever concoct. I choose to walk on palms and
outside of the levels of advisement. The hat is a perfection to be rushed by
strong payrolls and mean-spirited defiance. We have a thousand dollars each,
give or take a rupee.
Fat waste in overalls reminds me of Jimmy on his way into the haymaker
via streetcar. I’ll take you to find the sage and the short curly hairs of
tonight. We will know that it is him from the colour of his ears, from the
chocolate cigar runners. Be armed and diligent
to a tee, braid the kissy-wissy mistress of elevator shafts and expect to be
crammed in with chewing gum and respirators. The wings are not actually that
becoming when you think about it, really think about it. The tapping of
blackboard equations must forsake the blues guitar and all its painful devil
twangs. She was of course in custody at the time of the chest hair, she was
making things especially difficult for the other boys. Life is a rough ride,
normally even more so for the seventh and his addiction to football scores.
There is little else going on offshore, little by little the chains and
watchstraps are making mockeries out of the universe’s very source. Guns are
being kept ready in case the men held hostage turn nasty and want to drive
hotdog stands into the sides of the parted ocean. Manhattan cables are leaving
my knuckles featureless and irrespective of humanity. The coil is sniffing the
rear alley to teach you about the vile and inspired citizen. Home is a short
walk north then a quick detour through the island evacuation site. Bullets are
for favours so make sure you pay conscientiously.
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