This is a political message of political. Wake up pants, shoes, and other things of that order. Wake like a vest or undergarment, male or female type inclusive. Wake as a grandee pair of gloves with fingertips missing. Wake in the gaudy active tie tack or nose stud. Wake even for a reason. Wake and use exclamations when you dress. Your pants or skirts cannot be flawed. Your shoes cannot whisper. Political likes a good tie of normal, and you will quench.
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...
Comments