Not while the proper authorities
are looking. They can already tell that the earthworm is glowing between three
selective tablets that hone their craft in unique and unusual ways. The
flourishes set off alarms, give them a solid form that grows older and grows
cannons out of its eyebrows. The climb is like a dog nibbling its backside and
completely ignoring its tail, unjustified and, to some bespectacled gentleman,
reprehensible. I can see the fire but it just makes the matter a drone of its
former application, a boulder in a lake of sewage and floating bogey mounds.
The plantation just turned sick, suffering from some sort of dodgy syndrome.
Spiders make slick footballers
that regularly pay their taxes and lay down their wives for other men to
speculate on. The hellish landmarks they create off of the back of curly-haired
muggins types is phenomenal and yet only slightly more suggestive than bread-buttered
biscuits. You drive the shiny arse to a scratchy-faced surgeon and you get what
you paid for and don't go telling any old soul about it until the lawyers and
solicitors and the finger bashers have done correcting your false opinions.
It'll halt the sorority misgivings and cause cream soda bottles to peak and
average out among themselves until they share the same volcanic eruption for
the sake of those nosy children that always seem to hang around the biochemist
laboratory.
The oven is in readiness and a
transfer of power is imminent. The children among the spiders get out of their
positions to make it really hard for themselves in the hopes that that reversal
of sense will ward off all opposition. The decision will land in the hands of a
crack shot with an empty shell suit, with all the force of a teacup smashing
against a windscreen. The shatter damage will
make the black community cry and call the police for reasons we fools
could not fathom. Watch yourself while you wreck the storm into clever film
adaptations. Feedback crushes all hope with a new set of wings and an aspiring
dance tape. The ten microscopic reasons to be cheerless have been leaked all
over the National Christmas Pageantry Channel so don't touch that dial, if you
still have a dial.
Meanwhile let us read the pages
of a wink and make off with only some of the loot whilst the landlady isn't
retroactively conning the supermarket trolley attendants with her winning
vertigo. It's not nice to see the man boobs come out in favour of nihilistic
political tactics but that's the sort of shit that happens when you like in a
closed off society with all the window blinds pulled down. The author of peace
is a baton with its sweaty end burrowed deep into the flavourless ground and
the only party trick it will answer to involves a gravy boat, a sea monkey
foetus and a jar of pickled milk. Please note that this trick is far more boring
than you think.
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