27/06/2014 - THE FISHERMAN, THE END AND HIS CHILDREN

The fisherman, the end and his children all cuddle under the same umbrella for a suppositional clout of terminal conspiracies thrown and flung from the same hat. The others betray your eyes, your human weakness armed with fragmented stones and swaggering strangers that hold you with the truth as drunk in a limp buxom vase. Shouting and grunting shan’t win lady’s tainted favour, she owns her winnings with art deco pride that theme all over the place with a cigarillo poking out of the jet man’s iris. On my listen very carefully, I want you to cap a shout in the shade of the cruise ship and then start wildfires in matron’s underwear drawers, both at work and at home because we know she has them both and we really want to see what she says to all the orange and pale white.

He is the padre, the here and the now through the sniper shot and black axe sprint that becomes return to normal without so much as a fucking go and a funeral to nod off at. It’s no disrespectful if you’re really, genuinely tired and want to hire out a log cabin for a fishing trip next Murdock. Let go of the green, the verdant, the consequential shade of shouting with vibrancy and you’ll discover a new way to belie streaky bacon. The morning brings beautiful tax returns while the night shunts out fingerprints and a second set for the FBI. What the fuck is going on with Armageddon these days? It just keeps going on without concern for convinced pharmaceuticals.

We build the roadhouse, we trace Memphis for Murdock to complicate the cake recipe for princely reining of Jacques and all his swollen toy colonels. We would kill them in last minute of terms and ad domini. Take the burn off with a butter knife and keep it real.

The pipeline

Comes

From

A

Long

Way

Off

And

Spirals

Spirals

Always

And

Away

And

Anyway

President after president has been hot in here in spite of the rolling ways and the dramatic killing of one’s haunches for one’s aficionado. It’s like our secret, short-hand invention and balaclavas with fingers in the hole and headshots of a zit gut. It please me to know that the trigger has yet to be pulleyed by strong beefeater motel dwellers. Get this moving before our papers try to take me down on account of my address. She’ll never be in hoss hose situation again.

Take vignette to the torch, add depth of colour and a snippet of sucking sickness. Don't be shy or sadistic or of an age that is above the Freudian, be basic and at the corners, decoded. Make the sides a lot of people in a fiery square with stately secrets and pattern lines that get really dark in the contrast of a pit stain. The real thing is not to be contained, it it it is to be a panel of light on a Notch Age, set against it it it.