Saturday, November 3, 2012

Conservatives in the Pantry

She said there were votes, called people, and they hurt her. No flying remained in the sky until a tire slipped from a car going carefully into sunset. Then weird clouds expanded with a sigh that suggested strong habits of waiting for the road to clear. The tire rolled heaven, almost friends. She’s okay, but the demons want to vote.

Is she living in a paint-spattered room while the sun sets in the east, the readership might ask. The conservatives maintain a bunch of flowers to burn in their mind. Principles give voters a chance to finalize their own failure. A river filled to the brim clatters over the red and brown landscape, chuckling about captives. She wishes like a river.

Her days are unsuccessful, flying into trees instead of simple words for tree. The votes are calculated living proxy declarations while the wind whips. They don’t say she flowers with each word she sees. The votes are just plain sick, reaching fulfillment with a god-like trend to fall apart. This is not the love in the reading, more like staked claims from savage hunger, brought from the country of falling. Voting for pelts and misprision, the conservative rebate tucks graduating impulse into the spoiling water. We still can love her, even as she’s pieced away.

The Nazi Movement Didn’t Look Like a Duck

I wouldn’t want to be the tube out of which squirts the words that Glenn Beck speaks. His words employ the ringing tonnage of where you were before you listened. And over the course of his vine, he steeps teas full of long raga paste. When he quivers the force of truck stopping on all dimes, he remains a punkish pond well-rotted with the loss of trees. He has a halo over his loan shark, calls himself three times a day for doctored advice. Will he survive his own pool of sweat? Never engage the cage. Owning a fondue pot won’t solve the problem of diametrics. He is a slouch holding pennies, and the pennies of pennies. God spoke in the bathroom, and then Glenn flushed.

Ann Makes These Little Meatloaf Cakes with Sweat Sauce

There was a time when the logs in the fire were just children. You could depend on information, it was made on a hill and rolled to your door. We all insisted on the practical wave of knowing right, right to the beginning, right to the door. Patents were tendered, but children cannot step away. They have to stutter and fit that. The knowledge of children crystallizes in patient undertakings, like anti-Semitic watches or telephones with cancer. All time resonates in the way language grows from barking sequences overheard late at night. Not wolves or coyotes but the angling mentor who seizes opportunity as a nation. Not making sense is the new tomorrow but then the sea rises over the wall and litters the streets with plain old matter. To test limits is to read injunctions. Thank the doleful engine for such persistence.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Help Rush Limbaugh in his Time of woe

He is the excusing factor left on the porch with withering tractor breath. You see him. He has been a mountain for the goats, track for trains. Now the country quakes, with storm clouds reaching to the highest newscast of ardent needing. We are provoked. Molly Hatchet has a hit for the ages!

And today is the thing looking flowery while the smell of seawrack flops illogically into mind. What are the distractions that make A-Bombs wish to be H-Bombs? Rush Limbugh likes Mission Control.

As the beast eats dinner, trees glitter with words like glitter. These words attract the margins until every Tuesday imaginable. Such represents the spats on the political situation’s foreplay. Smite is smote in the present tension.

Rush Limbaugh was telegraphed with vital facts and figures. These he smokestacked with lightning, the poem of response. He is a human thing thru and thru, thinking more of hit songs than ever. Ever was broken long ago. It helped poor Rush Limbaugh cope.

The laugh of salsa in the field invigourates us. If you can imagine a friend who can fly, you fly with that friend. That friend is the colour of temper, is wonderful, is flying. We else have rocks for shoes without spanning indices that lead to set functions with cultural overtones. So it goes, the roof needs a rational haymaker.

Your friend who can fly seizes a minute like it’s nothing and spends the day. This isn’t easy and we have rules. We can secede from this union of world in mind, so we push. We abstract, which is verifiable if you do it right. We insist on vacations, when the back deck can be crowned with morally just gas grills, and the man cave behaves redeemably.

Your friend who can fly sees something red, and that’s one minute across the sky. The green is every time you saw a leaf. Splendid is the flight of your friend thru actions counted on a hand. And words along the drive to hoping for more bring something that doesn’t fade. Yet fading is the normal class action suit. Mining difference is delicate decay.

Your friend who can fly needs a home in our heaven.

Noh Blast in a Peat Bog

At times like these we have times like these. Winds fritter clouds and something falls from the balcony. In gaining speed, the thing illuminates the need for an atomic bomb to end all atomic bombs. When the atomic bombs end, so too World War Two. We’ve read this many times, in the lines on Ann Coulter’s forehead. N o one is left to laugh at Ann Coulter. Her virtues are crayons melting on hot parking lot creation.

Later destines tell Harry Truman that peat bogs originate in the mind of the clever. Ann Coulter’s heart is a similar stone. Let us all wince with the retards, the burden of energy is consuming. What if the layers of ideas between us were immobilized with a simple tsunami? A leaf falls on Canada, chuckling about the mountains left behind.

Everyone died perspicaciously in that special blast, and that special blast’s later town. It was original to the text, and the text had corners. When no words are left, seasons shade in meaning. Silence is pasturage for ages. The vote for nothingness continues.

Dear Mitt, Ann Coulter Has Phlogiston Pants

A pent up tree, in the words of Wordsworth, reaches a conclusion concerning Ann Coulter. Diatoms pluck life livingly in the sea. They see a world in which Ann Coulter sweats plums. These plums are her ideas, slightly rotten. The diatoms and radiant love reside in a potion of seawater, that will run to the skies as hurricane. And the rains will scorch the offerings presented as seriously as cows to the goddess Ann Coulter. And nothing will change, because change is nothing.

Ann Coulter, with crampons for teeth, is a defining smile on a painted apple. She is the next one in a long line, when we think that one line is never all. She is the position left in rags by mayors and senior advisors. She visits the backhoe of Rush Limbaugh or early stacks of newspapers, and decides on a license for dawn. Her union with emblematic mutter seems complete.

So we have these patches to consider:

1. Trees make paper if not memory

2. Wordsworth found ilk in the gathering of trees. Seriously!

3. Ann Coulter was a tree, before she read herself as paper.