Rimbaud moved past Elysium to the third floor. He considered Michel de Montaigne’s beard a complete waste of time. New World jungle Rimbaud flicked a gesture of unresistence, promulgated by the surety of bad habits. Pressing words forward like tribes, and therefore filtering, Montaigne sits at his desk. He holds a pen, minutes screw tighter, ideas in words spring. Rimbaud settles to this thought, his head in one place and not elsewhere. A picture of Rimbaud looks like an evasive clock.
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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