Bouncy
ethnic music plays along New York’s
predictable wet nurse and the shorn monsters that suckle at their stormy tit.
The connection is just barely a grain in a spoon with wings and a shabby
haircut that doesn’t need to be validated or stopped to be an unfolding
solution filled with heart hears and light cases of cheap beer. Foreign export.
Do we even know about the man with the blurry blue shirt? His destiny? Quit
screwing around and sample the death with which we speak the words so softly
from your laminated lattice thrust upwards with silly powers. Hold on tight and
feel the rush of continents from between your costume designer. The piano is in
the tail spin and sections of the cross breeze. The little oinks are the ones
that pull over tour buses to search for body cavities for the wrap party. How
are you doing with that by the way? Wreaths with glass cabinets and jeans torn
at the knees, that is exactly what I promised to you that time.
I
aim to be very upset with guns later and the mullet might necessitate an entire
wreck on the net, on the web. Flames go off spurting their little guitars but
Blake had the right idea with his shitty beetles in the airing cupboard. I once
went dancing through that fire and all the dweebs came out to charm me with
their holsters crammed full with DIY hammers and various indoctrinated tools of
electricity. Levae it as it is, I always say, leave it on the river with the
rest of life’s turgid hay. At once I am torn between joining a tongue click and
making bass players with just my smile in the middle of a gym class. Say what
you will of the rich and expect nothing more, we have our hobbies that descend
skyscrapers with oiled hair and eased pain. All we ask for is a few food
pellets for our hungry green ties and probably a medieval song for out quartz
hearts to suck the joy out of during the workaday commercials.
Take
for instance this coincidence, this is the meeting room and these are the
thoughts we display from balloons and number plates of swamped primary colours
and, needless to say, the girl with long hair there has a gassy foreclosure in
mind for our chief demographic and she sure as hell won’t ask for permission,
not while we’re out in the dusk playing with ourselves. Saying goodbye usually
does it but not this time, as usual forever doesn’t like to be kept waiting and
would much rather make a strain on a spaghetti machine, the spaghetti machine
of our Germanic schism. This will tear us apart and good glasses can’t do
ought. But let’s keep it polite for the slow dancers and their average yawning
and obtuse breathing patterns. This is a newspaper and it is crawling with
termites, termites that descended from the attic like saintly presidents from
their days.
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