The hurly burly tank engine is a mile down the lane and the
pat on the back of currency is all you'll ever see while I'm still around and
at this platform, pontificating. Some of the choir yawn but I won't hold that
against them because you've taught them worse manners than I can handle or deal
with or even throw under the next bus. We're just waiting at the business
parlour and expecting our expletives to fly away with our chop suey, tangling
together like a horse and carriage after an industrial accident of moderate
proportions. These are meagre times and we ogres have to do something jaded to
keep our public impressed. They tryst among the libraries and Higgs-Boson won't
have too much trouble with identifying the way out of the staggering bar we set
for the future generations of yawning altar boys. It sickens the spleen and I
know a trawler man.
These
women that you follow around are chaste and fair and never once justify the
actions of a fat man on top of the coffee table. They feel the hours coming
down upon them from somewhere short of on-high and they only complain when
they're forced around the bend and have to double up on aspirin prescriptions
without the go ahead from their own mentality. It's a decorate plate, they're
thought process going around and something falling off with a chip. Son of a
bitch, what's going on in this washing bag I'm carrying? To say that I've said
something wrong is to speak with true chatter and solipsism. Please don't look
at me, I'm rediscovering elements of my anima in the hedge fund I applied for
in thirty eight. It was a fine year for foraging and raging about the
frustration of state.
This
isn't an ailment, this isn't a sickness, this is a pin prick on the spoiled
nerve getting along just nicely with the music winding around in the
background, as if drunk on cheesy puffs and pure vodka. It all becomes as rational
as a lizard's eye spinning on its axis. My jalopy just cannot take the strain
of this mournful tune called Limpid Pools. It whistles to my brain scan and
blows that whistle all the way back to a troubled past involving superheroes
and wobbling arseholes.
But
let us all go to Australia! Let us be cream cakes for half a day! Let us all
respect the boundaries of our forbears and stop snooping around in their
misdemeanours and trials of errors. I can still walk the dog and make soapy
glances from handrail glue. Your smile is making we trustees startle at
butterflies, amass armies of the insects and set them on discreet swimming
classes just in case they're still packing monumental vouchers for the Staid
Dot Patrol. Their actions scythe and sickle and don't even leave mistletoe to
snack on or perform balancing acts with. Film scores have enough to say about
the staples in Dayton, Texas.
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