The
visceral pedestrian keeps his tools whirring real good. You like the name of
the second best control in this enforcement program while the shouting bombs go
off. You stymie me with disgraceful limey life that screws while it adds up to
a slimy wall conclusion filled with steamy apologies and herded elderberries. On
your tootsies, on your bucket winkers. It was my general’s machinery, his
phallic wound with other options and calm demeanour to tie up all loose,
inexperienced ends. That’s not why I memorise the trauma, it just shows and
grows and shows the growth with minimal health. As of now the red shoes make for
brilliant rubble decoration, as of now the citywide flashing contest will put
the horns on its judges and the thumping good soundtrack of heavenly thought
process. Try to forget me, little cheeks, try to measure the hay with your
hand. Can we just talk about this for once? The rescue?
Don’t you ever touch the whole life story of fixed points
as seen on the torso’s of last men standing who make themselves clear for
takeoff. Say good and better and leaden hoofs will guide the way in prison
garments while blue drifts tap into brotherly memories. When Yancy Street was taken over by the Mean
Old Mods, someone else had to pat down my perm causing me to connect with the
captivating Chinese girl with her framed heart and Christmas lights. I haven’t
seen such cup movement in a long time and I doubt I shall again, the dilations
alone cost a small fortune. We have every single civilian breathing down the
coastline to only engage final options for the gypsy folk and their endless
medallions. I strike the ball, it rolls, awaits my orders and then cannot
afford size or weight and so suddenly stops transportation. Bookmarks right
between the eyes, centred like a beacon.
March with the Hannibal
tooth expressively by the time, to the space of memory as secondary brains cack
fertiliser all over the mundane fields. This is the little fellow’s deal of
funning, the undone moron in a box technique. And technique remains everything
to the management who be, tails flipping and circling the thundercloud with
extra arms and only one or two external appendages. You throw the water about
you for a little while then Mr Thank comes out to light up your blade with
Russian delights and multicoloured multicultural engagement. Do you copy? Do
you groan beneath the cash machine? We’re moving as one in one big business
suit, chartered accountant lapels. Hear the bed sheets coming away with
compromise. The weirdo knows all about jumping all over the place to make ends
meet while that novel remains in the reactor of your back pocket trying to bum
a few cigarettes from a make-believe shuttle of human error or whatever it is
that your husband calls himself in the dark of twiggy moonlight. This is a
throw down of chest plate aeronautics, this is an electromagnetic pulse to the
scrotum.
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