Saturday, October 27, 2012

Judge Not Lest You Be Ann Coulter

Night sky scraped clean of interfering political dynasties, subway drained of empathy. Ann Coulter was a pond, once glowing life, a tribal meddling of harmonious clear. Then oh the Ann Coulter, bought by ® arrangement, with victory and assessment. Toggle switch of the amenities, and dying to deliver dying. The sweeping wet throb of pocked political unproven smears desperate changes in locked language. Swerve to emote, Ann Coulter. Let us explain your thinking in words of sensitively vacant syllables. A syllable is the part of the word that whistles. You lack syllables Ann of the forecast for rain in your ass. When you reached better, as others struggled, the world said, you are a better Ann Coulter than Ann Coulter, the smudge of some craven distinction.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

He Dwells Far Less

This is not the 14th century, yet. Romney wakes up, with verbs for the force of opinion. We stand in the back room and listen for nouns. These come first. He says the nouns are made of pining material, that wants to own itself. We believe him, his head is squared to the universe. We ask for a verb, and he says multiply. So many things could be so grown. We wait till he satisfies his own moment. What of adjectives, we ask. He says we have quickly become. That seems like no colour at all. Could you try again, Mitt? He wants a hill in Belmont to adjust our lives. It has already adjusted our lives, we reply. Each day is a cardinal virtue, Romney says. Each night of gathering is a stinking fall, we have to say. The swamp repines the moment when he could have been alive. The words resigned, disappointed.

Monday, October 22, 2012

In the Hall of the Mountain Vice President

Venture cannibalism buys a modest truck. Links to earth and human remain pictures of a forgone world. This purchased truck signals an escape velocity for those similar to human. They knew Mitt Romney when, when many were the many. Now they peel the effluent onion, they write a heated letter. Grasping the words for diagnosis, venture cannabalists inebriate in common time. A passing fancy for passing fancies occurs in Apple time, on the wings of Nike. Phil meet Steve: impress us. All of which argon acts like diatoms allowing mittens to fly in the wind, frore wind. We must fight for the integrity of saying we fight integrity. Your next clothing store could be your last. Women who eat marshmallows cannot be counted on, say experts in saying. Their men must be a strain, add the experts. A teleology of clocks turns to a calm press pass and sizes the day. It’s Monday, uniquely one of the days we live. The truck stops here and the turnips resume their gravity. Are you impressed by the mountain, Mr Vice President? asks a sentence in someone’s mouth. The modest truck slows economy down.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Costumed Girl Mistaken for Voter Fraud

There’s a town with a brain, now. No people live there. No purple sweating public branch of the affiliated stand on their toes to block more sun. No bandaged thought processes calling for more less more react with temper at the newspaper on the floor. It’s the traction of reaching out for fit pockets filled with urgent chewing that survives the debate. Every food is for the time. As they say in the voting vault, you pay what you get for. The town is a gravid pit for understanding how the gravid pit fills with gravid pits. In time, the folks will swear, a light of reasoning will spurt freshets cooling the hot brow of angry time. The human will then spot human with a verve and trust, till dinner time politely.

The Need to Need Words in the Sun

It says women and turnips have molecules but is that right? Is it right to share things, overdoses, meandering pines on hillsides? Is it fair for the molecules to hold things together. What is together anymore? Will words work in the forest, among pine trees and mushrooms? The background noise insists.

Turnip women arrived with their vote. They all named their dogs Rusty, after the candidate’s worldview. They all faced town where Rusty bit Socrates. As a candidate, the rusty man was led toward a circumlocution that swerves to hit trees. None of the trees were married or cognitive, just fit for voting.

The moral equivalent of moral equivalence rode over the trusted streets with a soothing bump. Mileage was wonderful, spectacular, and reassessed yearly for potential. Mileage fed the vote, the vote fed the candidate. All the molecules got together to say so.

Too Many Mitts in the Ballfield

The bloom and rose felt okay in the sun. The bloom is all that time bright thing, the rose is not the bloom at all but where the bloom can be. See, you vote for bloom in the tower of rose. And all the eagles of all the skies look unto rose and see bloom. You are not the cast of vote that makes a name fall off a tree, but you can learn to eat English, spend Spanish, change Chinese, and all for a better whirl. Thy ways of time in words closes massive doors and George McGovern. Theses sicken with dental floss and families. Registered in heaven is not a joke! We want a wave in the dark that settles fashion. Let us elope with a sofa while these rising plans come to terms.

Half-baked Plans of the Sparkling Guys

The pleasant scent of sky, the president of sky. The dial of reading on the momentary function of describing the world in the pieces left behind. The strange even pulse of sun and dark on idiots. The way the waves slap the shore edge and drink the people. The feeling of falling for words.