10/05/2013 - YOU ARE IRASCIBLE

                You are irascible. The charades you've been keeping up are magnanimous to the occasion and really don't preserve the dolphin reserve in the most ideal way. Their tail fins are muddled and dilapidated and Mormons are the only ones coming to pay their respect. It's a sad day when religion dictates visitation to such a degree that the banjos only play writer themes. The walk down is a long grouchy slipway to the invested objectivity of our human fragility. We give nothing away in our predilection towards castles. They just want to talk but we still give them nothing in case it marks an anniversary or something. The season as we know it is drawing to a close.

                The rosebuds are making snare drums out of their bulbs and the onions are ringing out with pedometer definition. The body movement comes in pairs and never to the knotty village. It might be toxic but the effects haven't quite been narrowed down yet, we might miss something to gripe about. Half a decade should do the trick, I think. What I hope is different game entirely, one that involves gobsmacked masochism. The griffin is calling out to the chimera for a better deal on its car insurance. The outcome can only be bleak with all the acres of tin can rolling around the shop. The stopper makes for vicious rises and pounding tails. Who would the church pick next? Only society could allow such an institution to make pedigrees out of spatial awareness. We're bringing it back into federal custody just to keep the whimpers at bay.

                Spaniards grease the sawn-off shot put with epic borders, the kind of borders you drape your Christmas wishes upon. It's a yawn and a graspable nose that makes this man a mythical being. The big red fire trucks are tricking him during each bowling tournament he insists on. The incessant shanty town of place mats. The dying breed of tyrannical Quakers. We wouldn't want to miss the scribbles as the place turns to killing its own corners with trapped light resources. Betrayal is strewn with sprinkle beams and dusty maize just to make the door quake in an indelicate manner. The slaughter of aprons comes hard for solution drivers and please don't anticipate a myriad of petunia raids in this hearkened district of horseradish. Oh shit, the glass is come! The shiny, shinny moronic glass instruments of yore!

                Racial redistribution is a given in our current canvas bag respite. The trees are whizzing on the canon of gummy sweets so no surprises there then. This house needs this view in order to make itself a tractor for electrical garrisons. Appreciate the Spaniards, Appreciate the Quakers, Appreciate the Mormons but don't let any of them get too close to the tape recorder. The feedback is exhausting and will not bend its own rules to contort the speciality of our entire horizon. It's all coming at us, rushing and gushing and fraudulently plastering the plaid on the deft.