The tribal long
grasses of firm autumn pre-describe an initial point. Valid in most
states, formless in function, they prepare the user for the diversity
of offense. Winter bears no questions, violet iceberg. Today starts
the endless aptitude test with variant rugs on the cursive floor.
This is becoming language, tho we regard ourselves as sane. Accept
the natural loss of poised sentences, words can’t employ meaning in
this need. Words have only dental notes of identity, cooperating
justly with the affluently dead ideas on which they were based. We
can elect all we want. A tribe still needs a blank page whereby
actual constructs of logical impetus tell lizard the time of day.
This time of day is lame.
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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