Treat poetry as a meddlesome link to that part of the transit authority in charge of lightly tapping a door before entering. Then open the door because you hear a bass solo over rock floors and a ceiling the height of long shadows. Drum solos fade into doctor’s left hand. Waiting expectantly provides a door form of window, which can then needlessly be filled with music. We are not gaining on the sun but a simple sentence; whenever will one appear? Endless refineries darken skies that were once sulfurous but got over it. Politics, aka Shemp Howard, studiously learns Paul Ryan. The moon was glad to see the last glade on earth.
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...
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