Generations
of sarcasm, propagating the Morningstar with drapes and curtains and the veils
they inevitably become. The sun wears through and wears down but never actually
puts on the cloth, never tests the sizes of the busts. I thought she was doing
it for the bridesmaid but measuring tape tirades make for a gamey leg as her
father used to say at church on Sundays when he really shouldn't have been
saying anything at all. Do you know what is worst? Sorry, which is worst? You
can't say German sausages because then you would be a brat and I abhor bratty
behaviour in anyone but myself. My hair is all floppy and gung-ho and runs its
metaphorical mouth off at any son with a shooter in his beige jeans .
Trepidation
on the opine. Your tongue is tempted towards precipitation but by and by and by
and abide with me and you'll see the good critic making good out of his inner
seam. Slant your back a bit and take notice, the huntsman could be coming any
minute to show you his variations of ankle bracelets. The po-po got 'im and now
'e is a bugger to rung up, reet uppity 'e is nah. Skinny dipping in a bizarre
landscape, that's what his conversation is like and normally he leaves too
early, usually with a bespectacled girl with low self-esteem and psychotic
episodes .
Some
might say that the horns blow in Canada but that has yet to be called for, too
many scientific judges are committing saluki to memory, a factoid which they
tend to replicate and pig out on. The pale-faced man injures the rest of us,
breaking our shins and commentating on our crossbow moments and mantelpiece
trophies. It just hurts that he's there and that he stalls and buzzes. Blood
pasteurized by his anaemic twin, we must finish the premier with twenty percent
but we know we cannot get up. It won't be enough for a lengthy chat about
gutting Christmas turkeys and the impounded liberation of their feathery brows.
Grandma wears her dresses for three and five but is outstanding on most of her
current warranty fees .
It's
just like running for office, running for the official title, running away from
officious remarks, basically running off. It's as sweet as apple pie according
to the masterful recreation of that childhood film you love about childhood and
the sugary coats you used to wear in abundance. You'd tool out a motorcycle in
your own bedroom and then go out to stand on an standard porch to show the rest
of the ions that you weren't afraid of their hurtful smoothness, that you
wouldn't be bullied by their natural desires for supremacy over all that is inadequate
on your front porch. Then you would back away as backers usually do, you'd back
away when you really should be running. I'm here to show you how. I'm there to
show you what you should have known when the baby cried out from you .
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