All you’ll ever be: lying in
bed, fortune telling.
As of now: your father in a
registry book, your primary source of funding gone to the bank for fishing and
hitting the right note with independent strangers, learning poetry through
tampering.
Memories of beautiful shirts.
Dots with hours, tiny donated hours in Full-Nelson commitment issues. Last but
not least: kicking the police out of their squatter’s delight, trumpet hard on
truncation charges, a few weeks ago with tinny people. Beautiful favours.
Expressions of affection.
Strange holes are parking
lots, this is important and wicker and from a while back in the nuclear winter.
This is a personal sweetener with obligations. Vagary. You really shouldn’t
worry about the quantum entanglement, not while its warm to the touch and the
secret won’t come out. Forgetful laws reach out to the irksome units to make
ruminating a collaborative period of leverage. Poses are, I’m sure. The library
expands into privatisation and currency that shapes the full size of a pontiff.
The pigs are in the pen with their floor to ceiling windows.
Stroll nude. Attract.
The upside down shoreline hovers
continuously over our city, indicating servicemen entering braggarts through
console games and little comforts ripe for the mauling. All I say is precious:
the strikes, the petitions, the sentient news broadcast. The date is dreamed in
latex.
As of now: perfect days
blotting out buzzing form from armchair enthusiasm, greetings at the door,
getting to the door with understated grace. This is full of wheat.
Service comes out like sunset
and adenoids that leave us thinking about tropical powers and blooming space
savers over the last several weeks. Under all bowling alleys: complex warfare,
short-lived good humour, humidity, stomping, stomping, extreme vigilance with
flame retardant foam, a monument to be made from it, racist embarrassment.
Themes are bluegrass.
Participants are huddled
among the ashen remains with their favourite legendary absolution during
redundancy clearance schedules. Have all possible antidotes on hand. The band
is at the slaughterhouse, playing their Thursday routine out like a series of
oblongata traffic jams. All starts up again, slices itself, startles itself,
becomes tasteful and light as air, definition comes via the underappreciated
window sill. This is the mission with just our crowded pointing for the
competition. If you want we can run the sofa into a paper account. You are
passing up the opportunity with sagging tree silence.
Meanwhile cease with that oar
in your hand and the sampled handbags, let the really good luck get in line
with black hair and unmanageable station editorials. All the lots available
have the best promotion of healthy self awareness. Love to use more memory with
full laughs and skinny hips.
As for me: the seagull
screams with name brands, weeping the true dangling sinew with silvery viscera
squeezed under their organic hips. More weathering for the children and their
wooden squiggly phone. It’s the same thing.
It’s the spades.
It is the spades.
- IT DOESN’T TELL ME HOW TO DO A DAMN THING.
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