Sonnet goodbyes and flying machines. Soporific goons in flying machines.
Make of it what you will while I while always everywhere and without a smile to
tuck into a hand basket. This is weaponised loneliness, a sharpening of the
shaft to a deadly accuracy that pinpoints every pin prick and derelicts ships
with attentive disposition. This is a fine land, sorry was a fine land and
might not be again if you don’t shut that ungodly cake hole of yours. The
seemly priests would say something but what would they say if you were to open
it their way? Something whimpering and stymied I would imagine. No comment. No
further comment at least.
The glasses look good on everybody in this crowd because
they spent their junior year practising the art of wearing glasses with style,
especially when crooked, and they just don’t know how to make apology reports
without making it sound like they were properly singing and asking what it is
exactly that is wonderful with this pleasant pageantry that is the world. It’s
really a whirlpool for meow emotions; emissaries come here to die and be lost
somewhere over there, it’s a kink. You just goose march over to the theme park
and see for yourself, it’ll stupefy your socks to your tits.
As of now the laws of physics have been stymied and
tickled with a feather in the cracks that lie between. It’s called the MOVEMENT
OF A PRAT, what we’re trying to incur, to invoke. It’s a desperate attempt to
ploy our girlfriends back with pat-me-downs and console wars all forced to the
back of cupboard in the name of scientific rationality. Barely none of us
believe we’re getting anywhere and even those who still insist are being trod
upon with great infirmity. It would hurt a porcupine to search through the
emotions in this sorry case. Like castration. Not too jolly.
Lay down the duck-headed out-bidder with weathered lots at the birthday
party that seems to go with cherished footfall and filigree contemplation. This
is the geriatric compliance method, it is free in the wilderness and needs all
the light it can stuff down its sweaty wheat neck. Don't be another absentee or
face the void of follower's insight. Running away with it will only cause you
to blister and trip up over your newly exciting feet. Just love your family and
attend the event before any other shit comes down on you via the rhythmic beats
of dance music. If in doubt, remember the rules: LOSS OF BLOOD CANNOT MAKE YOU
PICK UP THE PHONE.
The tunes are frisky with complications and vibrant descriptions right
out of the paddle waves. This is all external to destiny, a conceptual argument
where blurry debates and distant machinery slow down to unravelling paces.
Perhaps the dull ache we all feel is merely separation anxiety, run through
with irritating breath counting. Judge yourself fairly and you will tone the
matter down to its very nub with little else around it.
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