About two or three years ago,
the pale-faced 'pretty much' escaped the Token Cockney's lips and splintered
its way through an entire elevator shaft filled with egg shells. The glamour
was too much to behold and slap bang and slap dash. It was intriguing to be a
scientist trapped in a cellular compartment, fondling a circular component as
the winches come calling in. How can they still be itchy after all this time?
The shouting is a soothing composite, a regular header for concrete misandry. Don't
stop everything whilst on a poor man's bike, it's a cheap trick fixed onto the
back of a black actor's glasses. All it really takes is a bit of complacent
wandering in fatuous dragon badlands and perhaps a quick visit to the lavatory
to knock her head off, whoever she might be that's inside.
It seems to be a mix-up mixture
of cock-up blooper blinking, this is the will of God's delicate feet. They ache
at the prospect of wearing bloody sandals again, especially in hot weather. God
prefers to go bald and not act like its big thing in public. He made Hell into
watered down Italian cuisine, specific with rapiers. It's time to be
delectable: a shit and a wank in a 'Let me out!' The cracks are forming in the
author's dedication and blood is ricocheting off of the poor sod's colt.
Confession takes a lot of asking, history begging questions again and all over
again to prove its forgiveness of the stark.
The Madam of Oft will probably
get time off for good behaviour, provided she exposes her thyroid gland to the
press. The men in hats with cameras need to know about every little synapse in
her head and the other bits and bats rustling around in her trooper vessel is a
good enough sort of start. Withdraw your combs and let go of God's admission,
wanting leads to yearning and yearning leads to the fraying and foxing of
invaluable pumpkins. Just start the tap off and see, these monologues run on
then along.
All the tall women are maxing
out their lungs with beef and household appliances because the numbers on their
calculators don't quite mesh with the configurations they see in the waking hours
of their head. It's going to turn into a stand-off at the Mediterranean, it's
going to end in a lonely man sewing his wife into a master plan for Heaven. The
Madam shall last in the opposite grove. At peace. At peace.
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