Rapped across the running streets like vines of dire reaction. We were the generation, and still are. Sunbeams make fancy bullshit, we wear berets. Stretching out from old igloos oh we have a whole ball to roll. And into the streets we say, racing with foregone gloom. Tidal in every respect, we roar off ready to banish. The moment flashes in still water. Exposition follows except news disappears. Expect to have words in a moment. The air we breathe contains anything, same as nothing. By this, we feel relief. The road is only one inch long, if measured in time. The inch does not exist, just after effects of the measure.
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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