Versus
Verses scurry suck and blow. Drawl makes Mangas of us and leaves nothing but
meteorite chunks. 'Ow' and 'ouch' do not a cholera epidemic make. Spikes are
bummed out by the prospective neutralisation of the grail days and combo monstrosity.
Satirical Frederick is prowling all over Erasmus' hairy chest, in search of the
red fucking team and their tendency to make minimum wage derelicts bury their
dead. I am the reason we lost. I am the poseur.
Some
might have said that it was rigged from the start, that it was a yawn expended
in jewels and pillows. This being a completely different gradient, the morose
periodic keeps shitting in dolphin-sized chunks. Life-sized isotopes are
pumping out stand-up skeletons in contrarian fashions. We rove and rove and say
bad things about bruised bulb dialects. Saying something in dominoes has become
a travesty of the extra-sensory perceptions. There are Y chromosomes all over
the fricative pastrami and the reason lies in the dead centre. It's a dead
certainty of personality. My mood juxtaposes the re-established pentacles in a
surly massive.
Lovers
are extracted from the whoreson's epistolary format, perfumed by the
rudimentary darlings. The puppy appoints the minute as its most favoured guideline,
she is on fire like some form of starter that doesn't clap or refund the difference
in a creepy machismo click-clack. The camera pans in every which widdershins,
making for a dizzy storm for Saul. Draughts come in from every orifice, masking
duels and lunging sludge at the road less paved. No-one reserves the right to
be upset. Death is a humid victory.
Weevils
are choking poison plants with bivouacs and diverted grandeur while fizzy lips
make lizard steps. Broker's Sediment is Paul's Party-based Prophecy. One little
scene makes the speech sworn and unending. The background, of course, remains
unconcerned and cool. Prosecution is not for the uneasy and gurgling objection.
The salad tongs are the last obtrusive answer, the only word pairing that
defies the ridges of livery. Wartime stratagem makes the beats jive and merging
into one naked ideal known only as Tobias Grange.
Hell
bent on the hockey whistles that fill the stands with standing ovation
ovulations, the tryst is curtained off and made inaccessible to the everyday
public policeman. He forgot his watch and nipple clamps so he isn't worthy of
the notary or any of its dramatic pistol whips. In a backwater parlour such as
this, pencil sharpeners are the least of God's worries. He isn't an
introduction after all, he's a numbered suicide attempt that Vikings squeal
about in their private sleepy mastheads.
Shut
your mouth, you judgemental patriotic far-flung stinky-chinned storyteller! You
are spewing forth myths and timeless classics and not thinking about the
consequences of your recital and the clockwork it will inevitably melt. Paper
flakes are brimming through the pockets and nobody can button down the catch
without the portrait of a lair's liar. It's a masochist's wet primrose collection
and we insist on stamping all over it.
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