Cysts on the Plain: the
latest videogame from the company that brought you Herod Guest and his
Law-Abiding Babes. We need him rectified by next Tuesday so that we can talk back
to his parents and slap them silly for daring to question royal white shirts
and frilly dactyls. I look for truth but find that violins don’t know a damn
thing about any damn decaffeinated drink. This suited lacklustre needs a mumble
in a friendly ear, a tumble in the clay tennis court while the rest of us
damaged people retreat into our communal aprons. When this is done, shattered
dogs will whet themselves on extreme heat and trigonometry dilemmas. Dial-up
crescendo.
One, two three, four, five,
six, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, thirty-four, seventeen again,
twenty-one twenty-two, ask for a parent twenty-nine, sixty-six a shambles,
rough cobbled gobblers in green-tainted suits and wooden overcoats, seventy.
Any power you have is fro and
every discrepancy I possess is to. Remember the teardown of dinosaur claws and
faulty automatic fans. Don’t let me stop your letting out of tourist
attractions to the tune of an autotune scream in the face of sequential boxy
dwarves. We all know that the white snow revels in sophomore howling and
currant couldn’t. Don’t let the beak nose drop from your mouthwash cap while
the clock rages on with the opposite wall to the end of one another’s purpose. Test
the limits with lime juice. Breathtaking flurries, airy flotation devices,
gentle geese in crystalline glasses, never the nether, just you think about
retiring whilst the flotation devices are dribbling their commodities. Tell all
about the much-belated goodbye for sons of loathsome pop stars and
ever-gracious conjugal relations. Looks like a job for the credited cast and
their cascade of shameless batteries.
Put it down to the length of
some vestibules, lay it all on the lover’s tiff and how it takes neither
grumbler anywhere other than the writer’s retreat where they neither want to be
nor want to accrue holiday photos of. Some might share the iffy double exposure
but you remain a true friend to the alienated golfer, namely ME with my MS, and
the mildly coastal back-up band. How we all see heaven is conducive to how we
all sing about hell. I’ve been wanting to have wanton crocks for a long while
now, dressed up in my croc tie and alligator shirt. It’s much too much tooooo
harmonica solo.
As for the rest of the
soundboard, the springboard has a few choice things to chatter about with
jitterbug refraction and various other immediate reactions to the catalyst of
this walk space. Mulch all the way to red and back again without castigating
the minute-by-minute crossing guard who leaves the saxophone inside all night
with fiery lips pressing down in all the wrong places. Pass out outside my door
and I’ll drag your self-portrait along to its soulful climax. All it’ll cost is
a visit from the cops. I like the cops, the sunlight in their hair.
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