My
heart is given out to only the most Yiddish contraption and to absolutely no
other. It's a sinister secret that develops bull horns and uses those bull
horns to tangle the red tape until it hardens into a scarlet tap which I feed
to the glut at the end of every line break. Of course, he isn't the same guy at
the end of every space, that guys far too small to be believed by his peers.
Sordid trespassing transfuses my mind into higher planes of gross negligence
that trip like tongues on the back of external resolution pikes and that's
exactly the sort of shit you've got to feel good about for fear of crying.
Wrench your limbs all you like, the nodes will just collect in the corners in
their quiet little voices in their precocious green ottoman.
This
implosion is an ideal bag for making more ideal bags as a sort of army of
sextuplet templates that grind and grill the troops and troupes and all their
Kurdish placements into student crackpot theories. The really good butter
churns from the tip of the lymphoma schedule, it seeps out with a popping eye
that will, ironically, blind you with a single lick. It's not even careful, not
even twenty six yet, only sweet sixteen with ruthless thighs. The police will
be called in a short space of nonentity so long as you watch where you lay
those mucky fingers on my copy of the grand almanac of graphic novel gambling.
This is a priceless heirloom which is to say that it belongs to someone else
entirely and with no thanks to you and your army buddies.
After
letting out the bill and receipt, the waiter reconvenes with his own trapeze
act in order to re-establish gyration patterns for a whole new generation of
giggly bleeders. The orange ions are fluctuating just thinly over the dunes and
caskets, and I'm the only one with nary a bullet point to the front or the back
of the name. Just in the centre, dead centre. Just because. I never paid
attention to the eraser at the end of the HB pencil, it seemed like a league
away to me all throughout my randy exercise book duration. It makes you primal
at the very thought of all the tall men who could run you down to the Cockney
Station. That is.
This
is serious. The farthing has been lost in its own ethereal lasting, cause and
effect chumming over the dead WI jam jar with its screwed lid and the brain
slathered on to the top. Violins play at the service and I'm not even joking
around with the guest of honour or his most hated wife. To be so brash is to
give into the chef and the chef is a smarmy bastard with his legs between the
circumference of his inner circle. You find the green, you tie ti down and all
the day you might surpass the status quo.
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