Remember
the lesser races while they set the square into the ghost call. There’s big
cosmic shit going on but nobody will stick to the sticky warpath of my limber
pitter-patter. Could we reflex for resources? Could we masturbate to an influx?
Could we show the yellow bricks to the hail? The tampering of electricity
invades a very Tudor-like deep freeze. That makes some simmer of malleable
blinks into mishandled lesion. It does make some sort of narrative sense at
least. I could die in carrying the coast across the ill suit of ongoing
necessity. We’re going upper frontal circle, absolute omega bitch with maximum
infiltration of not looking in any other direction.
Let’s
celebrate the three portholes with potholes amid the dandy snowfall. Can you
imagine if they brought him in with the beard? The full beard? The kiddies
would demand to be called small children and would demand to start driving
lessons. Also the tenth anniversary will violently remake the scraper toes and
scarper with rose baselines. The Irish voice will revert to mascara gummy bears
in a feasible attempt to complain about resilience to wonderful beauty. It was
so short. It plagued upon my flawed fears and hulking tangibility. It shakes
the apparent fundamentalism with rough ‘GONE FISHING’ sign that scratch across
the woody, greasy association. I really enjoyed going in with a sow’s head,
which really helped with the send-off, and mocked those words. The plate has
rotated on its own axis and now would improve features of the utter application
implication if it had all the relevant parts to knit together, preferably in
front of at least fourteen television screens.
Boiling
lentils must survive the spaceships of time and all the wrong impressions they
stream and trail behind them with starry phone call noises. Bah! Like that
might happen, like you would meet all the baddies in time. Their city is in its
death rattle, guns blazing and just a little blasé in the dictation to grafted
storytellers. The evil opening might enter the mind of the policeman but his
coals waste no more time than is perfectly and sexually adequate. Have you been
running with a red dress and a motorcycle helmet? I can tell from the number
plate, its shape and height requirements. Open the doors while the thing on top
his whirling and grinding quantum mechanics into ancient Mesopotamia .
Did you treat yourself to an engine going round and round with leadership
helicopters? I have a feeling we’re towering right now. I have new batteries
for my public inhaler. The heading is a true taskmaster with knocker delights,
well worth being taken to the unbitten scene. My legs are passing the column
and the column is returning to its original trade underground. The moles will
be happy if not the rest of us. Salutation comes in fluffy boxes. The first
queen has enough credentials to make a scarf that goes on for days and trips up
unified intelligence. You don’t have a job, not in actuality.
This
poster child will make a hat from an oil painting of an arcade that has surly
laconic talk show host with blood on his/her hands. That man has deep dish
pizzas and a right to be both the last day and of the last day. The rocket
cannons are causing such reconstructive breezes that the dust can barely keep
up with its boorish extermination of all things clean. Messages do golden hair
party tricks that crash their own coercive identities. What are these words?
Are they from an emergency palate that spits its own brutish concerns for
collar flaps. The arsenal is forbidden to the fleet but not everything is
momentous. Footnotes can and often will stand in judgement of your kin but not
really you because time happens and practicality stains in red ink. Such
heaviness is heaved along my autumnal shoulders and the boots are doing their
part retroactively. The cogs and the clockwork. The workaholic’s theme park in
its bitter bits and bats. There’s nothing to see when we look at chairs. Why
can’t it be both? I heard you say fantastic things but all I can see from your
gums now is the interface receding into large-breasted chromosome patterns.
Your
face and form will jangle the supersonic in this form and at that century. Are
you afraid of the centimetre? I’ve lost the right to even say so anymore. You’ve
got a new face to survive, a nice green face with a raspy, burnt lip voice. You
could kill everyone with the same sexy coat but, as you’ve said, you have no
desire to suddenly be better than everyone. The consequence is English,
thoroughly English. All those children end-stopped out of some misguided sense
of terrible knighthood. You want to see what that would turn you out of? The
maitre is a mantra, a waspish proof that defies the pudding with chocolaty snap.
Your pledge is offhanded, paragraphed with ‘KEEP OFF THE GRASS’ foreboding. Why
take it there, to that particular mucky, mucus place? It takes a long time for
the silver police to do anything outside of its own jurisdiction. I’ll take
your very somatic push to charge the conflict all the way to marriage. I
gotcha. You gotcha. They gotcha. Even the darling horse gotcha. It shifts tight
shoes around the moss disguise like a king on a chessboard. The queen is busy
working at the trees, chipping them away with screaming teeth tethers. The
tablets unsheathe the consequence with washing up clothe flourish. Step away
with red curls, from other exceptional surmises. Anything could happen in the
under gallery with all its iffy fissures.
Alaskan
stone dust ripples through the blowfish and the casing can’t just walk past
without being a warty effort in blank glass call zones. Where could life be broken
from? I definitely see the pavements from the correct angle of descent.
Something always gets out via the searchers’ entrance. I want my sandstone bank
back now please.
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