"'Better
than the engine room and no less accidental for sexual reproduction and cinnamon
responses for the sake of observation. You should love the way I press your
chest along the pocket watch of ameliorated attention-seeking. Send your own
self on a congressional romance seat and see where it leads you, my guess is a
clean cut descent eight miles high. The television has been laid out on the
grass, sprawled among the weeds and daffodils just in case the natural perfume
leaks through and causes frictional dimorphic tambourine music along an arched
cat’s back. The flames climb high but I’m far too small and you’re far too
lovely in a gingham dress. Keep the upthrust going and the windfall might be splendiferous
for at least the space and time it takes for an annoying person to lick their
paw. Read and the whole of the isle gets reshaped onto a mantelpiece with all
kinds of shit kicking down with short story twist endings and spattered can-do
attitudes on their way to the promised land of Justcan’tbeforgedagain in the
Heathen Ridge quadrant. The players are constantly trying to take the field for
a game of gorged horizons whilst feminists take over the big brown boxes for
the semblance of poets and vets, all squirmy and manic-obsessive. Try not to
wake my toothsome retirement plan. Lose a little battle everyday, Grand Duchess
Webb says as she maligns her lunch.
Do
you recall what was revealed? I’m not sure I can even call what was revealed, I
have my finger on the dial button but it seems like a moonbeam in my grip, the
kind that moves around without yielding robotic seizure or tampering the
scientific artist straight through the noggin. Lock the banker in his own
cesspool and get him settled unto sleep, re-home his accounts into a clean
black envelope for the enclosure of silken bridgeware. The salivation and
deliverance makes the valiant into grubby detectives of the law, a masquerade
for gentle spouses with withering rebuttals such as my car and hose. It’s all a
matter of inclusion really.
The
pretty farthing and all her boomerangs couldn’t start a fire under my more
towering collections of videogames and videogame memorabilia. We’re a weary
wolf, you and I, we’re weary hounds together in the flattened face of it all
with our flanks raised and our feathers farted out from the tar. Do you recall
the totality of the product? Do you even like to see your right hand as a
product? Would you care to see it resized? Bar-coded? Assigned to a steady
rector? Captured with more or less the same speed of a camera in a wind tunnel?
Surely not. Surely you’d rather see that matter involving the them that seems
to be cropping up due to gamey legs, surely you’d rather be surly about that
for a few minutes. Walk away with the bracelet while you can, it’ll see you
safely to the damp grove and the tree that is causing a causeway somewhere
there.'"
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