No
descriptions are available for consorts and their concertina ways with their
beastly finds on the lantern side of things. Green heroism is truly newsworthy
but somehow not tolerated around here, we are all proficient at shouting in
conundrums at men at work. We don’t know who we were or are or where we wake up
with what question and how nameless. Non-descript, non-percentile, persona.
That’s the long and short of it, provided you’ve got the tutu on right and the tattoo
isn’t playing up around the itchy crotch area. Going south for trout has never
been anywhere near as plaintive as the glorious woman has made it out to be.
She has no knowledge of what will be and nobody, repeat nobody, will give her
the craven compliment she’s been seeking. The one with the iron hem and the Olympus stitching. All we can aptly remark on is the
shape of the box that her head has emptied itself into and how arbitrary the
sport of merely watching is for the clowns among us. The clowns are the ones
with the arsenal, of course. They don’t gratify, they just like wearing frills
for the sake of going against the grain a bit for the time it takes to be
automatic in this world. Blink of an eye, working of a cuff, shot in the
outside department. It all adds up to the eclectic playlist that classic
literature has become because of our incessant hunger for foliage folios and
the burning of them.
Some
call them monsters but I wouldn’t touch them by a millimetre, not while the
server is a hanker and a tenterhook at the exact same splint in reality. The
balance is the whole truth, the offshoot is the branded accommodation. It’s a
condo for the really small, really smart people who want to ride around in the
bouncy castle whilst tipping back bottles of fire water and bolshy hair. The
badgers come out to claim the arrests as their own, they come out with their
young and huddled masses and just bring it all back now for the sake of the pop
songs that made it through the inferno. The tree frogs wouldn’t stand for it
and neither shall these lads. They’ve got their own fashionable version of
knuckle dusters made for the realistically hardened criminal who doesn’t take
no backtalk from any videogame controller. Only inches left alive, that’s the
motto of the crew their developing and funding with careful hand movement and
grand design. The architecture will be something to marvel at when its erected
but in the mean time they prefer orgies and wine to matters of state. They’ve
even abolished dungeon slavery to make things interesting for the kinky
gardeners that watch them with frosty sermons right at the backs of their
heads. The middle brings back the dead, the end does fuck all about it and the
beginning just incites. He brings it all back that one like bells on a mobster’s
casual cap.
No comments:
Post a Comment