Saturday, August 7, 2010

Thirsty in the Sky

Information figures in the apricot bonded to the sky in verge of dawn. Expertise settles in the silt phrases of cloud. Those clouds remember the real Bob Dylan. That Bobby Dylan sifted like a crustacean. Cetaceans refer to practical chords in long watery moans. Crustaceans flick central switch. Bobby has time for mild restriction and a broken back. He sent a text message to the drummer of Aerosmith. Joey: How are you going to pass for excitement? Verbal integrity blooms ironically as one legged sailor falls from the mast of imaginary ship.

This Is My Vehicle

The simple is a caustic rose with dangling participles filled with abject crème. Wings of increase saturate a verbose thousand million. Disappointment augments the lasting, including experts wearing earrings. Chockablock regnant piquancy requires source code with federated poopdeck. No, poopdeck is wrong word associated. Words alert government officials. Sailors sleep. Poppycock, the element of surprise, manages Reagan’s team of non-elected leaders. The president exists in a vacuum. No, winsome loops require freehand drawing style motivated by Black Tuesday. Forget ornate doggerel rapt for candidate plasma. The shrouds of Billerica survive with canoes, an age old answer. Sorry about your Comedy Central, mine has fine hair with 50% more protein. And did I tell you about exploring Europeans seeing the Colorado River flummoxed by age old stone? Those Europeans were ripped from the pages of toad stories. Plate tectonic processes, very impressive, work thru different presidential administrations. We pushed it, subject of sentence, across the floor.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Are These Extraterrestrials Doing This?

The report of the cornet in the morning sounds like Sarah Palin’s half of the ocean. It is obviously not natural, no cornet is. The sun wobbles on its pretend axis, which causes us to consider Sarah Palin as the last apple in a long line of bananas. Strange, her hooves look fine, her dormancy is equable, and her siren is justly provoking. Somebody tell *Derek Fenner* to read this poem, an iceberg floats in Palin’s half.