CLICK TO ADD NODES to the splice of
life before it all becomes too underhanded and the police start to charge you
for your gratuitous indiscretions. You
will be without imagination if you dare to mark this tragedy with the horns of
some disembodied bull. It really isn't pleasant to watch the lonely snout
remain in its squalor while the better half of the head is conquering galaxies
with its keen diplomacy. It might cause all kinds of furry damnation, it might
jive with Boron and no son of a gun wants to see that before his morning
coffee. The godliness that we pretend is in us is drying up and yelping out for
Moorish craven rhetoric, it is drying up our secret knuckle test with its
spongy autobiographical lies. The woods remain open. As mother's follicles
drain on the kitchen counter the rest of our sickened family will draw out the
sun and play snap until it gives in and burns the lot of them with its snide
grin. How do they do it? How do they do it every time they feel like it?
THE LADY WITH THE SWORD is a home
wrecker according to the jurisdiction files, they use the phrase implicitly and
seem to reprimand misuse or alteration by making the clouds dissipate into a
green-blue winner. The river remains sequinned but the puddles are trying to be
creative with what they have, turning the jewelled effect inward to cause a
make-believe fire hazard. The borrowing that surrounds it seems to come mostly
in cups with wrinkled bottoms and they seem to defy funnel logic just to see if
mankind can really do much about the wrestler's bidding report. It turns the
hand softly. As always the greenery has lost its fence privileges because of
these damned wayward tendrils that seem to hoop around exposed clothes lines.
The possibilities are hardened and still hardening, developing a new, stronger,
fluffier coat just so you can see that it's doing something about the climate.
Smart jazz is plucking down that corridor so mind how you go from hereon in.
DEAR WASTRELS, COME ALONG quietly
with your big toes up your consecutive nostrils. They, the police that is, want
to question you on your buckled wife and will probably demand that you stoop
down and stop being so abusive to her over the intercom. She's a quiet one but
that doesn't give you the incentive to strap wheels to her knees and watch how
she doesn't complain at fifty thousand mach. Plus you've attached squeaky
wheels and that's an insult to anyone with insulin pouches round the front of
their trousers. Don't you know the needles crack? These people wouldn't have to
call you wastrels if you didn't beach mangos and breach good manners just for
the shits and giggles. That thing on the horizon is a hammer and it was made in
Wales so you best watch yourselves. The Welsh Smithy sends his regards with
clumps of hair on the handle.
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