23/04/2014 - YES, THE APRON WAS THE GIRL'S

Yes, the apron was the girl’s. In that case, my friend, I won’t get my thousand dollars. It ain’t going to be yours, that’s for certain. She was mighty nervous the last time I done saw her, she came on with a burning cross between her shoulder blades and yet her bones were cold. I have no recollection of Comanche roundabouts or more wood on the fire. The pouch contained a maelstrom, the pouch on the apron; patted down by shadowy hands straight out of opportunistic ape descendants. The fluttering of shotgun pellets were thanks enough for one century’s worth of semesters. I’m getting my money back through long sought after stake in magical missing. It never occurred to me to be a man’s man, I didn’t know it paid neither.

            letters come by years in the violin cases just as the lustful plates contain boiled sweets that make you comfortable in the company of a mexican failsafe reacting to the hammer reactions of north cut territory. some or other agency with trade goods and easy laughter at hard sales. lay on the hat with the feather eschewed just perfectly, just aptly for transparency. they built longhouses by stumbling on to something scarred and wet by hostile activity. there was a white sullen girl; she could have been the girl after scalps, the girl who once owned the apron that’s now in a suitcase at the bottom of the ocean. squawk, mama, you read the schoolteacher before marriage hits the marriage bed. cut it out, will ya? i sure do wish you could make a native out of the wild goose that entertains itself with inappropriate berth caused by white teeth. that’s grounds for real tough night cakes and you heard me with taking off fluid straight from the sunny funding fees or the coffee you sip when in adverts about window glazing.

            Call me ‘understudy’. The quarantine shall fill up the mounds of hashish just to show the welting winders that their depiction of Shakespearean tragedy is really no different from the claims of dominance on a weary dust bowl. Am I three slags or one? Can I fall fowl of the rector? Only the ‘understudy’ could march up and achieve such acclaimed status without doing his back right in. Slipped discs are inevitable on the stage in the past few timeframes. Well, at least for the Irish worrywarts.

            You are an asinine critter but you have some redeemable qualities that save your easel from my cannon fore. For one thing you are tall and stand on feet like hands set in stone and protracted by mathematical abstraction that trips off the despicable elements of my smoking asexual nature. Ambidexterity is happening all over the world because of the specific placement of fast girls and their humble reservoir knowledge. They refuse to accept it, they prefer to refute its every riptide and ripcord and bacon crisp. I wouldn’t touch the sodden remittance though, it has ‘ultimatum’ written all over it.