Matisse Flavoured Onions

 Painted as plain root, the shift in document pressure deserves note. Modern haricot vert in rubric, bovine romance, rich prognosis for the palisades, all the pressures of progress in your chosen day. Such a shift would warmly sort any Paris at any turn of century. All those blues and greys accounted for, to fill the eye. And it could but wouldn’t explain, while clearly tokens part words part almost bright. The new century would because old as that, like prose but not so established. Grunt would talk for the masses with mealy sheaves of wheat. A history exists in age, with punctuation, and propels the future back to the farm. Meanwhile, colour establishes trivial politics remaining. You could think of patterns but then just blow holes thru. Try it, then, or now. A population remains with esquires and known deeds. Trammels people a skill, replete with outrageous verbs and melody. Alexander at Tyre showed pluck indeed: we can learn to get along. Prose proves itself of just the same dynamism as poetry, but with pails. Picasso had no time to exist, neither did Cézanne, we just carried on nuclear. Trading ozone for reliance, we assert the socialism of expectation downgrade, with stridency seen as rigour. There would be no France without watches.