Skip to main content

One Obvious Plea

Jostled

Orc stutters with act of food group. Parsimonious human populace obliged to practice fetching. Orc bothers to submerge, brood in underwater, feed not eat, and then intelligent, almost. Human on land becomes a miser, in sunshine upon rightness. Half play of politics means a city that has a flattened surface. Degrees mean something in the heft of hierarchy, to the point that the point becomes invasive. Orc is killer, notably and in books, on the wide-ranging seas and farrago. Left to chance, a text becomes opinion where one lives. Human endeavour works for manufacture. Government works for stands upon which the sight of the later day can be seen by some. Orc holds breath, human does not.

Tenderly

Bach’s full throat, by which means plenty in the dilation, sorts thru hampers full of noting. Cares alive. No trace of organism resides in the expansion promulgated by a little bit banging ignition into beyond our minds. Something written down somehow becomes exacting. How does spaceship Orc retain its rights when harbouring Human cannot refrain from the still life of Glenn Beck? Cheers were made to flow backwards.

Discover

Every Republican is a hamster. As a reward for enjoying the cage, the cage treats the hamster like the swish of sweet fire in forest outposts known for iniquity. The Democrat, by way of margin, includes semi hemi demi quaver refrain, tiny towards the centre until filled with the same rebuke that rebuked water’s wetness. Fire claims fire as a natural range of fire. Thus and in stilted language, Republican argues Democrat in vice versa. Otherwise, friends, the chance might happen. Did one say every Democrat is a hamster, or a universe on its own grows long?

Partner

Baby Spice is 900 years old. She is crusades in and of herself. Scary Spice growls terrible stockyards, and your church called. Ginger Spice documents clerical errors with clandestine ripening, and/or gossip. Sporty Spice simply debriefs. Posh Spice is exactly what’s left, reducing Sarah Palin Spice to elbows, John Kerry Spice to blanched green beans, and both retain armament till the end of the Afghan war. Just kidding, Human Spice, we will never part.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ask Your Ventilator

The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
Post a Comment
Read more

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
2 comments
Read more

I Could Not Find the Specific Location

Dear Assabet, the river that meets the Sudbury and floods the Concord. Dear river, you have moved something. You are not a regional rocket landing for the sake of what explodes density tribunal once. River goes out a spurt of earth to go some earthy miles in an active geology. Then the way water goes down, a religion of just that way. No guns and that famous spew right now. Paris is a town to the right of what we have mapped here. Assabet wants to be just Concord, you can hold your own. Own is the favoured stance. Poems are wormy things to dignify the vast whatsis of arrangement. Words. Words are tomorrow because today says something says something. We have to lie sometimes. Add that to nothing and nothing wants more meat. A poem become instant. An instant can handle the track, Aegean waves from after years star meaning moment. Meaning enters work, telling story, fractal. You are a useless reference.
Post a Comment
Read more