08/05/2014 - PUT THE GOWN ON THE GLASS

Put the gown on the glass, the hour will take it up later like a sidewinder sickness and swizzle it about in its mouth until the glow effect reaches the tenth level. Rest the rest of the chassis along the bonfire and the deal with God and his god bods will go through it and co-opt all unnecessary numerical materials that might otherwise forecast a prequel. The cats are casting off for the light switch store in case you want them to pick up a hunk of plastic or something equally depressing. I've made sure to tell that that it has to be grimy or you won't even consider nibbling it or tossing a salad. A little help here would suffice, in this regard you might say and know.

That's the sound of elephants crushing the remains of the raffle into graphic censorship and emulations of holographic fumes that still rise up into the atmosphere for noxious togetherness. You'll love the way that I turn up the books for the sake of the ink rations. I see the world's smallest creatures sucking out our common sense like spinach and taking all other relating buzzes by degrees. This is the frantic boredom of cyanide apothecary, well that aside from the acid rain. Revenge really wouldn't be enough for the breeding process anyway, any case, anywhere. The shiny shopping masses of worthless jungle machines so be sure to get it working by boiling the diesel families into toxic sludge. After a while the coughing fit will subside.

            Never hockey. Never region. Never again shall the nocturne see us apart without rational dictation of nix and nays whilst inhabiting the breathing space of an enthused remote control. The scratching and the kicking and the hair follicles are really just for show, a show made especially for the hungered and immeasurably consecrated. Foul breath all round, I think but then thinking isn't quite as lovely as imagining, isn't quite as terribly porous so it probably wouldn't get quite as far in the whole resurrecting dead rock bands business we've been charged with. Sorry but that would be your fault, you lent a hand and that inspired the hippies to write you into their long songs. There's no cheek to hide behind, you're a tongue that doesn't even wag anymore, it just flaps around in a subservient manner, in a subsumed manor house. You just can't seem to keep up with those down payments.

             Here we go again, give a Byron-esque bite of thyme to the fat stranger draped in various smocks and see how his little consumptive habit lights up for all the children to resume their legal patter. The lids are all coming off with impressive voice, they orchestrate a fine vintage for the sake of day old ice cream cake. Now's the time to be Shelley in a diaper, not Erasmus wit alf-finished lingo. Get the feeling in that belly or chicken out, if you prefer. THE WOMAN IS STILL BRINGING THE WOMEN.