Low
down and toothy in the mind, the egg unfurled like a polite neck crack and the
pink came jutting out. No amount of short burst gunfire could keep this woman
from shaking her baby, from seeking her dove population that surrounded the
crib. Alarms went off and a thousand men named Herman came forth to claim
parentage of a child that was quite clearly born of a blare and, in being so,
party to no particular father. All personnel were evacuated immediately within
four minutes: a new and glamorous record as far as the screech machine was
concerned. Holding onto the rope had the same unsatisfactory effect as bashing
the blazing blaze button. The little girls held their minimal safe distances
and only then their breath started to come out to play. Goddamn fussy boots,
the farmer said in his breathy, thoroughbred manner. Such a foul mouth. All
kinds of lightning blazed to see such fun.
The
gate came ahead like a caped coil of conduct and my sobriety was called into
oppression for as long as we both shall live and grieve. Utopia hits like a
bowl full of punch attached to a fist and subsequently stripped of all its
personal quirks. She threw the bow and my soul blew through her. It's okay,
said the man with hayseed comb over, you lasted the metrical medical platforms.
I hoped to take you off the bishop as his acid latched itself onto the squidgy
hull but you'll do fine just as you are. I'm very glad you came. That was what
I said, right here in this marked spot in the very same green dungarees. Since
then I've been to Blackpool and Skegness for my holidays and haven't felt a
thing due to all the wavy requiems and inquisitional devices. Long before
getting back to here, revenge became uppermost in my mind.
This
is a caterwaul or can't you hear it? I forget these days just when in the day a
gay individual can listen to certain indefatigable sounds. Sometimes they come
out as mere zounds which make you feel all prickly like an organ donor amongst
smart children. Victimisation makes a huge impact but the long-legged typeface
that shuts the fuck up continues to pick me up and lay me on the table. I'm a
guest, a bog standard guest with a two week spike to my cold, second hand name.
These are my stories just as those are your ditties and riddles. Good products
make for pathogenic music effects, stand by someone's marriage and it'll come
to you. Your eyes normally interpret the event while you're sleeping and the
cockroaches are updating the radiator for general purposes. They say the master
of ceremonies will be getting married soon so that he can divide up his
property with a good old-fashioned gold digger from the regiment. So far he's
cruising the footbath spa and bedding swatch factories for short and sharp
women with settled breathing patterns and some tattoos.
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