Untouchable
bushes filled with men who cannot cry for longer than it takes to share a video
moment or a snaggletooth requisite on a fine Friday rind afternoon. It’s all a
lovely, bountiful matter of fact opinion that shackles the staff room from deck
chair to deck chair, from one corner of the tuck shop to the magnanimous other.
The smilers are tying their shoelaces and preparing their weaponry for elfin war
on a grander scale than a schema from the cognitive development of
psychological theory without necessary application. A man cries into his hands
over the things that he wants but can never quite cling onto without society
coming down hard on his dodgy shoulder blade, a woman just clinks her wine
glass and stomps out all outsourced power for the quick intake of breath that
has since become a form of short, sharp motherhood for their languorous number.
I
was actively paid not to care about the political climate for as far as the
work shirt and stuffy worth trousers go but other than that I can see no reason
why I can’t babysit your prepared agenda for a few months, most of which I can
and will be found sweeping the fallen leaves away into the playground for the
little blighters to play with in their inept obsession with standing taller
than their stuffed teddy collection. Repeat this and you shall receive more
than a clock, you shall receive a radio with imprints and engravings and all
other forms of romance expressed through the chisel which cannot otherwise be
defined due to elliptical legal procedure. The audience has the game by the
hollow and the demon hunter hasn’t even finished his pack of faggots yet, he
really likes them faggots and revels in telling everyone just what they are and
how they taste to the sorry and formerly girly.
The
lid has been blown and the dice it is caught in the upwind and won’t land until
a specific political figures is imprisoned without trial and without a warty
ignorance to call established linguistic theory. The shower has stopped running
its stranded complaint box for fear that things will soon get emanative with
the ammunition, perhaps a tempest of German history shall do the trick while we
sit and sip our cocktails until the straightened deck cahirs become little more
than fire wood for a cruised-out gig. This is the sort of stuff that people try
to take credit for anyway, the
rendition of jumping out of
keyboards while the old women and the popular reference library shall
end in wives and wolves.
Spin
the thread, work the yard, teach all that you can teach whilst on contract and
prepare for the inevitable repeats demanded of you by the fickle and wastrel as
they crap through the colonic chocolate system that you so carefully arranged.
Remember the nationality of the numbers, the sequences and their own personal
lavish islands to the other edge of the East Pacific.
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