The semi technical trammels of our day bring balancing delight. Note the movement of Karl Rove’s caudal fins, so directive and blanking. The trunk with which he lashes produces grace as a linguistic disease. He has a happy clock taped to his ass, so that he can conquer time by sitting. The lens by which he focuses enjoys multiple states of stinking. So we are dear to him, loose but minding. Karl Rove rises with a varied pattern of word choices, each one suggesting nuclear tucking of the jowls. Meaning is clear, for some reason. Karl points to Glenn Beck’s anger and trees flare with disruption. There is no plan to remain human at this time, just a need to reduce filing time.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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