Reticent
bowels, they are. Plastered down ironing boards with the trimming nibbled off
with red, blamed teeth. Take a little walk down to Dingo Corner and splay your
lovechild with football fowls and borderline crossfire. He/she's never coming
back unless its along sweaty stacks and disappearing thorns. They make craters.
Delve a little deeper and you
know what you might not know you'll find if you find it without your wet little
goggles on. Such dismay on the edged quaff that tips and folds grouses into untidy
stammers of the yokel nomenclature. It's sacred and you know it to have many
tiny timeless portions of goodly thatching. It pounds as hard as calculators on
the soft side of wilting milk bottles. It barks without inhibition and
occasionally without a decent pair of shoes to behold. Some might tell you not
to seek out the beaker but you'll do it because your father was a man of
industry and his brothers and other siblings were down for the count from an
early age, round about the time they were forgotten about entirely and caked in
hazy dust. Everyday features become more and more apparent, just like the
breaching hilt against the undertow of your harvester belt. See how it matches
your eyelids.
We see
that your name is an picture again. Actually two pictures as I have just
rightly been informed. Very good. We are pencilling it in as your experience of
an otherworldly veto. You managed it all by yourself, without any empty pockets
to swim inside. You took the answer right out of that horse's bushy tail and
expressed it all across your hairless chest. You weren't a woman the last time
I checked but then my direct conversational style does tend to ignore the
intricacies of the other party, especially when they aren't as heavy as me.
What have we here? Firstborn physics all over again.
The microwave clock, the
microwave clock. It's the same as the elk's inner thigh seam but they probably
didn't account for that. The colour is a baffling hue of green, the yarn of the
Technicolor Empire, the toast and the talk afterwards, the polite one that is.
Laying the groundwork is the same as pencilling in stuff about persons other
persons don't like, it's the twisting of the natural writhing patterns. Washing
carefully is a grand practice under the burning eye of the green microwave clock
and all its constituents. It's derivative, the entire experience is entirely
derivative but who really cares to find that out anyway? Most people have that
encouraging NOW feeling which wraps around their legs and talks with a gay
man's sneeze. It promises a bacterial
biscuit relationship, the one that Benedictines have without patient remorse.
Hearing the saxophones above the trumpets is a must on this side of the world.
I'm grabbing my hat, my coat, my
Augustine displeasure with the rim around the top. I'm reaching for a door that
is selective in its hearing. I'm you now.
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