blp
04-22-2009, 09:24 AM
hello make shoot or got a number for a tailor baking nowheres or semblances
Fascinate the old houses they are yours children of avengencie matchstick paycheck
Your hair your lip your hairline your immaculate concentration on stupidity
It’s incomparable. you have a gift. It’s in the lobby, wrapped in newspaper with
magic marker scribbling on it. Cheese your maker. Devour sandwich with tuna eat
it. You scum. You folderol nonsense goosebump kiddywink stopcock votive junk heap.
I will be repaid! I will be given my due, you lumpens! you pigs! Talk, why don’t you? What
Is there more to say, however. It’s still the same year as the one in which we last revealed
the snow, twigs, perennial leaves, little berries, a song for all the seasons, samovars, moats.
Oh choice chocolate vanguard. Oh navy. Oh army. Oh majorette baton twirl display team.
Hide me. I’m licking mango. I’m stuck in a childhood dream. I know it. A house just floated by.
Why? What did it do to be so ballooned and garrotted? What is the coalface when the land ship is aground?
What is the cannonball in the square for? Why is it sitting on a sausage? Questions. These
are questions.
Let us answer with a certain sameness of similarity. Let us reply with the content of the question
in tact. Let it be said, let it never be said, and let it always be said at the same time, let it
let it let it. Let it be bled. Let it be bowled over by a chick with a certain yowzah, vah vah vah
voom. Let it be dead. Let it be dreaded and bedded and bled from the head and then happily
wed. Let it go out of the window in the wide wild rangy strange world, roiling with its manifold
diseases of the universal mind. This, arbitrary as it seems
is the only way.
Fascinate the old houses they are yours children of avengencie matchstick paycheck
Your hair your lip your hairline your immaculate concentration on stupidity
It’s incomparable. you have a gift. It’s in the lobby, wrapped in newspaper with
magic marker scribbling on it. Cheese your maker. Devour sandwich with tuna eat
it. You scum. You folderol nonsense goosebump kiddywink stopcock votive junk heap.
I will be repaid! I will be given my due, you lumpens! you pigs! Talk, why don’t you? What
Is there more to say, however. It’s still the same year as the one in which we last revealed
the snow, twigs, perennial leaves, little berries, a song for all the seasons, samovars, moats.
Oh choice chocolate vanguard. Oh navy. Oh army. Oh majorette baton twirl display team.
Hide me. I’m licking mango. I’m stuck in a childhood dream. I know it. A house just floated by.
Why? What did it do to be so ballooned and garrotted? What is the coalface when the land ship is aground?
What is the cannonball in the square for? Why is it sitting on a sausage? Questions. These
are questions.
Let us answer with a certain sameness of similarity. Let us reply with the content of the question
in tact. Let it be said, let it never be said, and let it always be said at the same time, let it
let it let it. Let it be bled. Let it be bowled over by a chick with a certain yowzah, vah vah vah
voom. Let it be dead. Let it be dreaded and bedded and bled from the head and then happily
wed. Let it go out of the window in the wide wild rangy strange world, roiling with its manifold
diseases of the universal mind. This, arbitrary as it seems
is the only way.