Saturday, September 19, 2015

Play Wonderfully with Lettuce

Writers matter when the words. Period the words, and the matter. The class of matter remains class, and matter. Black matter happens. Writers make matter in periods of matter.

Ministers include people and otherwise the notion of who can say what. Finalizing the whereof of some prosecution, the word finalist stops with gaping mouth. Let a word.

Experts agree, diagonally, in the final dalliance and procure. You can find poems. More often, and less likely, they find you. Adjust your asymptotes accordingly.

Friday, September 18, 2015

They Seem to Remeber Nothing About Reagan

Once again the posting, on the door, to receive the door impact, to fly into the most-caved presumption.

One dawn only, in the immaculate sense, which leaves us drizzly, spelling claim authority as two words, believing neither.

The fence post ideology transumed by simplest statement, one elbow speaking for two.

One blither as posture, a post in the summer after swearing to inhale. Not a tractor beam pulling sense but a grabbing anything more.

The space between words is like people.

Once again there is the wall around the rest. Once more a mouth feeding ummasticated words from the formal fund of derelict.

Once again this is your treasure, with names like Trump, Coulter, lash and stream false class.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Save the Satisfy

Nothing left in the beer facility,
town crosses lines over
oceans. You have to be

there.

Nothing left in
leftover condition must read wrong
ways new.
Indignant wig
pours Donald Trump into
Elysian squares.
Posture flambeau!

Nothing
escapes the mind of
Donald Trump.
Literally. The gates
are closed.

Butter your Donald like
normal. Only
free world succours home
people planet time.

You can do
it, provocation
of transit in
windswept
plenary.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Collect Your Favourite, Extremely Versatile Pommade


How does Bobby Jindal paint glue on everything? How does he release a statement? How does he talk to cranes? Where can he spell his name? Over which rock should he spill his term? Which ladder on his porch will reach the ground?

Panting for violets, when does Bobby look okay? How often can he spell his name? Under what conditions should he explain his shoes? Does he have a happy amplifier? Will he ever seem fresher than toast? Could he trick his toast someday?

When spilling affable drinks, will Bobby imitate his own teeth? Where is his zoning map? Did he ever get that proverb from the closet? Channeling his monetize, does Bobby make soap? Has Bobby Jindal been drifting further and further toward a pile of socks? Is the ocean vague enough for the eyes of Bobby Jindal?