Hold
up your sigil. Throw it on the ground, give it a pound and a fist bump, as you
would a courgette. Remember to charge it up with the ring ding and the mother's
lip (NOTE: this can be any mother so long as she has wild, child-bearing hips).
Start the day up in a vehicular way, get ground down by the political chiming
of the hypnotic thermostatic mindfulness that awakens our natural and then our
unnatural turnover state until we're all in a station that resembles Wembley but
only vaguely and with stifled giggles strewn across the tracks. Scratch that:
hewn.
The
venerable horde of my lump sum is teaching me to grate on people's nerves, to
tune in with their hypoglycemic garbage chute and party on down to the love
shack that all the hipster kids keep honking about in their honky-tonk fibs.
They naively call them chaotic and rad and super duper hyperbolic. The pinkish
orange of my vibe is getting me a drag of the down and the Down's Syndrome
kids are really the only dudes who can bust me open with their wide-eyed
perceptions and half-tea pleasantries. Don't be a downer, check yourself into
the clinic and start unfurling carpets with flourishes and tickle buttons.
This
is the story of the poem of the unfurling beauty of the majesty of my mighty
tee-off and the retirement package hasn't even settled on the mounds and hounds
of snow yet. The glistening is a horn blower on the blowers, on the phone, on
the door buzzer like a shot. My, my, my, my rhymes are hymns and him at home
has glaucoma medicine in the droves but you can't have any unless you sex me
with the right mantras. It must be a mould made at Christmas, that's the only
sometime shit that calms me down and takes me right off the tracks with my
hands in my plasters and my sticky on my butter knob. This passion is an
infusion of magic and type speed, married and mingled and burdened together
with glad-handing and apartheid favours. The passing of the past is of no
consequence to gentlefolk and their gentlewomen, the ones who are secretly
running the governing grove whilst the simple men play with their wartime
strategies and pretend that they bother about honest hatred.
The
train is coming in and it's a smooth moot point, typing away like mad and doing
the worm a judicial injustice via power-walking and the pockets of rich men who
don't even care to wear trousers in public, let alone insulated pants suits.
I'm driving with the horned one, listening to probability measures and making
sure they're kept on the record and strictly away from the coffee pot that
tends to spill when faced with nimble nix. The cut of your jib is the slam of
our rag, we are centre-focused and all just want to be lovely motorists with a
bleeding torso and a kicking sound track to keep us alive and woolly.
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