The moustache is new,
the mouthpiece has become beholden to a larger object, has become a myth in the
shadow of a grin. A petunia slipped up the water spout and denied evolutionary
physics just for the sake of science fiction that is really hard to address.
Whatever happened to the dude in space? Whatever possessed him to become an
agent of the CIA? Did they even have a party agent in the CIA before his
imminent reprisal? Could they curmudgeonly decide this way? Who initiates? Why
let go?
This
is the point ahead of all time. This is a freeloader going upward and
heavenward and licking the lift buttons will do exactly that to you, you fools.
This is a reason for hearkening to the ergonomic surgery and playing out the
field theory with empty hands and greasy palms. This is a man with a bank
account that becomes more worthy by the seaside. A holy man may come down many
hymns and address every little minor detail with the reflexes of a gazelle. He
is not a woman and that seems to do just right by him and his white sky with
glass ceiling equipped. At least he didn’t sell his soles to Filipino Ass
Merchants or Other Men From the Rectory. This business of running a mouth would
have to turn him out of pockets and decompose his household appliances with
tongue whipping. As for the trekker, he is condemned to double indemnity and
won’t reside in fealty to a singer he doesn’t believe in. To make sure of it
you are being sent out on a case to gather the rest of his erstwhile children
and use them to hold down their own mothers so that we might be able to fill
their brains with ebbing and flowing ideas of reducing this despicable man
mandible into a pile of gargantuan ash. It happened once and it happens today.
As you’d expect.
There’s
nothing tender left to the loins and this statement can’t possibly be true when
you really let go of all annihilation primroses and plant both boulder-shaped
big toes on the ground. You can’t know, not probably, I’ve seen the Caramel
Prophets make more prophets from their selective caramel factories and with
little time to spare a spire from exclusion principle. The old woman has a
heart of gold or so I’m told and I’m kind of tempted to move it so’s I don’t
have to see the boss man get all angry with our slap heads and Wendigo burgers.
Ay, that’s right. I’m glad you noticed but not glad to let you go over the
finer points. It’s getting to be just like a hand job in as much as the
giraffes seem to want in on the action. The wolves have already placed their
bets and wager their more prominent canines for a cut. Mothers are next on the
agenda and grandmothers after them. It seemed only fair to let the little girls
go while the psychiatrists blathered on in the background of our TV static. It’s not to be trusted so
don’t go.
One
of the new times I see you, I’ll be a whole new man with whole new parts and a
few necessary and aptly-named holes. As women go out to drink film broth, my
brain infection seems to be spreading into biblical passages of hellfire and
brimstone despite the fact I’m just reading a book on the WI and their
magnificent rag collection. Womanhood slaps down hard on the start up and
ingratiates itself with typing skill and deputy exhaustion prevention habits.
You just take a little breath and I’ll see who I can lie to meaningfully and
without a haircut. As I’d expect but what about you? Don’t go on, don’t carry on
about the toilet in the downstairs lounge. The faucets are perhaps a little
leaky but the animal who put it there
were gathered up by an anecdotal trip out to the south of you.
Let’s
now dispute the finer points and see where that takes the feeling of hands
brushing a magic carpet simultaneously. Moo cows are expensive but I think
you’re worth it, little paraplegic misnomer! You are sliming up the hallway
with your hopeful banter and blank verse of pedantry. Stay away from the
lifestyle and you'll make your own lifestyle, forge it, button it. It's silken
lace that strokes the underside of your barefaced chin. She was a poor dear and
you know now how to accept it with exempting yourself from any further
developments in parliament. It's a masterstroke and I love you for it, exactly
as you stand right now, I love your promises. The kicker is that you'll fail
and falter and then blame me but I'll just go ahead and restart the universe
and switch disk drives to make you huggable again.
The
Little Old Romanian Woman wants to show you her collection of Great British
baking techniques. She is quite proud of her recipe books and will force them
down your throat in lieu of the actual dough so you better get gussied up and
ready for the tantalising. When she talks, she's a regular greenhouse gas going
up and with your petty balloon triumphs. The Little Old Romanian Woman has an
ideal outcome in mind, she always has an ideal tucked away to truncate for a
raspy-hearted afternoon out on the field. Let's have a picnic and open up
objectivity clauses. The school work is implied.
It's
taken some years to arrive at it but now we, both you and I, need to realise
that the dots in a cartoon dogs eyes are our very souls folded down into two
dimensions. The blackness is not there to signify or indicate or even infer in
some cases, it's there as a placeholder for all the races we could run
together. It's news and news is good provided that you set off with enough
chlorophyll to stupefy the light.
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