Simple Theories

In the peat bogs where dying ones, On splendid telling machine blurting case registries, Under butcher block creation comfort, With pondering sounds assize the sea, Over blended campground growling porch front dishing, Into moon bent colliding light,   And while the Karl Rove aspires, hit the cheap shots with a lacquered liaison matching perplexity with the underground soon.

Deliverance is a canticle made of pants and dresses, assayers now say. We float in impressive popping sounds as racism flowers for tremendous Glenn Beck. It’s his birthday: he’s now yesterday underwater, with sweaty aroma. Nota bene: he’s also a romantic puddle. Meanwhile, this horrible poet woman, partly training further dog sleds of Republican what, she says she rhymes with any detergent undertaking. Where’s the money, bitch? The better types of racism show a forthright quality vis-à-vis Glenn Beck’s Olympian asshole. Might be the appropriate synod , mutter the long end of nothing special. Language needs some looming, scant, and collective, not the dray horse expanse of our down time. We have been privy to potholes, walking down the long vocal damage of something versus something multiplied by stupid makes my ghost. Pants are universal.

Linguistic modulation conveyed by Karl Rove beaches whales at a flat rate. You read that in the papers, sweating for coming days when review of tax liabilities would be clearer. We weren’t pleasant harvest at all times, including that incessant beating of drum lords timing us carefully. Religious application goes like this: bold cannon shot flies over the rails, mean as pox. The slamming continues with few rewards except that a colourful blood shows a communal touch. Those are not safe tunes. Meanwhile, just Yeti on the slopes of Himalaya. What do stretches of snow on sandstone mean, currently, a place betting wind? Taking a deep breath with several words as companions, Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez break up with a humanizing touch, critics say.

The semi technical trammels of our day bring balancing delight. Note the movement of Karl Rove’s caudal fins, so directive and blanking. The trunk with which he lashes produces grace as a linguistic disease. He has a happy clock taped to his ass, so that he can conquer time by sitting. The lens by which he focuses enjoys multiple states of stinking. So we are dear to him, loose but minding. Karl Rove rises with a varied pattern of word choices, each one suggesting nuclear tucking of the jowls. Meaning is clear, for some reason. Karl points to Glenn Beck’s anger and trees flare with disruption. There is no plan to remain human at this time, just a need to reduce filing time.

There is humanity in a wad of phlegm , said Karl Rove, especially when my words envelop it to carry bright thunder to the smallest thing . And as he meets Andre the Giant in his dreams, imparting lessons of leaving to the spirit of molecules, he rises to containment. Lax fields of stone and dull weeds can be reasoned with , says Karl Rove riding high on colouring adjectives with mayhem’s responsible victim. The simpleton prop upholding clan class diving over the reaches of plain logic to a foundry insisting on poise and cut off, furthering the revolution of square things clucking clucking clucking clucking hemoglobin revolt clucking clucking was that someone I passed in the river clucking clucking clatter clatter poems are nice friends in suspicious times clatter clutter detergent pants Karl Rove, squire to the proximate haze.

Karl Rove claims, at the risk of dial tone soon mother, trees were never green. And at the risk of comparing notes, he reveals his teeth radioactivate. Karl Rove ran a tree once—an association of various modules (leaves, roots, bark, branches, townhouses)—it was the last thing on earth, oaky, piny, beechy thing. Karl Rove said Tuesday night that Hispanics are the natural hurricane. He means something (clutter, abutment, field stones up the ass, that sort of thing). Listing human qualities is almost easy when the subject is Karl Rove. Winning is the game we play with bodies of people and mixtures of mice. A class of golden mucous erupts from Karl Rove’s mouth: we see he means to mean something. Mean is right where he lives, suppurating docket of words covering actions. The sad part is, words dying in shriveled state of Karl Rove mouth. Gary Cole's interpretation of Karl Rove ? “We're Edie Falco's recovering addict Jackie.”

Candle with burning held near Romney hospice of thought. Hope lies in the hoping lies in the hope lying in Romney spent the best. Flavoured trees go with solid food instincts. Candle burning in idea of where the ranch should be, golf freshets to read. Read people as an abstract netting over the continent sighing about trammels. Everyone hates trammels, they’re just not racist enough. As rich as we are poor is as rich as we are radioactive. And rich is the smell of opulent pouring news from local words made public. Describe the noodle that spreads across the soup called chicken. It makes no sense, slithering in that broth. The demofractured event stung only so deep. New trammels to revere seem like the road taken.