Quip
after quip about reasonable doubt – where does it take the mind really? Does it
steer the monkish parts around in a steady circle or does it merely make
apostles out of our larger toes? Question after question concerning treasonable
ideals – which is the saddest cut of all? Who makes up for the fact that the
rest of us remain so jaded and probably won’t even climb out of our weighed
coffins for the soil piling up overhead? Why did we let the things get so out
of hand? Where is the postulated plan? Is it a map? Is it a map really? Do the fighting
and succeeding to the sound of a heavy piano, filled with custard powder and
gold bullion. The thrill of the last one to fall will sacrifice the manic hair
as swept by vigorous winds from the North and chastity from the sweetened
South. It’s the last fault to fall and breaking winners are becoming a broader
concern as well as wider. Push with fever, you despicable layers of later,
better hunters; the kind that sniff out nectarines in yards of unapproachable
mood mud. Weary travellers prosper for the days before being away from the time
appropriate.
More
on the swap later. Who didn’t ask for the hunters? Who specifically didn’t ask?
Why agitate them during the drum solo? Surely you wait for the guitar solo and
hope for a good kneeling spot ahead of the choir. Cherubs with crinkly voices
are dark doctoring at poor puppetry. Give it all to me? No wait, just give it
all to me. Vilify later, at the dawning of dragon culture. Or is it draconian?
Either way I’m not getting paid enough to hone this shit, I’ll let it trip off
the sewage pipe and prepare for the backlash like the good little sailor I’ve
proven myself to be. This is the quest, the benefit and the holy trinity that
wasn’t made for the tempo or try out on a sports field somewhere. I have
travelled across the land, searching for creatures of poor pluck and lame
defence. Our hearts were courageous, our Catholicism sodden and slicked back. It’s
always been a dream of the last one that you learn the drama society’s phone
number, the pulled mileage it will grant you will graduate the rest of your
meagre abilities to pristine levels of excellence and sometimes triumphant
fare.
Ask
the guitars now. Ask the drums. Pretend that destiny was full of truth and
same-sex marriage and preteen consumerism or pretext consumption. Ask. As of
now I’m just a lonely tree-dweller with his hands in peddler pockets as I
whistle out the blankest pathway to fortune and crazy horses without the big
gay musical at the end or the shoes that fit. With or without you, we’re going
far out. That’s right, I am becoming we through the power of prompt thinking
with remote controls as enlisters of future followers from my TV set. I haven’t
paid the bills in a dank age.
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