So, leave a ‘top’ 2 buttons undone. Fate
shouldn’t adapt spindly now, or bang it
it home. There’s nothing more except my
distasteful impression of Mel Gibson
in red shoes. (Footwear is a hot mess for u
men.) A sick mind resists emotion solving
puzzles. Are u going to put that there?
It dawns on me I am covered in bacon
reform. Instincts are mostly buried under
cement, sunk talking to each other, wah?
They were hard to yank out of the wrinkled
valise (I removed the tongue). Gibson Pond
plays daylight gavel to gavel, searing, puffy,
relaxed, with that living unlocked smell.
Career update: some excise can save us from scrapping (the (mission)
(Me first then the face of.)
let’s be fair, our partnership was an accident enjoining all to see your cycle of equity ...
here’s the creep out. I’m leaving you everything glazed or remedial, tho it’s the 1 with the most holes and expense within the rattle, 1 1 was snap chatting about.
And when blood types were fresh no 1 got blamed. I would like 1) to see or set up that 1st position, b) be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers under wraps, c) knock 1) down and inspire small talk..
Say I’ll be back. You never can tell. In a heartbeat I do the 2nd over (something that was) and
Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of explosive dumbness to withhold then expose your ethic without talking process putting out cut-off points where ideas can pick up habits to muddle on, better to become accoutrement for a mouthful of definitions in all this anapaest.
Maximum restraint = get it done don’t talk to me.
I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.
You live within politics and practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.
Behavior samples predict largely harmless craft,
poll-taking is rhetorical solutions.
The ham’s anger has hatched..
We’ll have you over when politics and death are what they should be, augmented with Pablo Tac bouquet, plus a full deck of historical fantasy and hyper décor that crack the lobes of automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, thanks! we’re good with “no real choice.”
It’s impossible to separate churned out understatement from the performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how the cave and landscape felt. Next, a cool minimal database advanced by textuality. Minimalist and to burn out your swing try knowing you live on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value is contingent; partly it’s insight, partly not.
The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What will matter is how to find and / or place each attempt. Classification will be by evolutionary adaptation passed on to descendants, as the collisions = one’s part multiplied by preferences, vapor. The work includes more than these prose bits, but one’s words make everything one’s composition, one’s part of the work.
Materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever, sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.
And the chorus is plural on getting uninvolved or whether it’s the scene of aging.
(I keep saying moral arguments are gnarly.)
And an aspect of our fiction holds. We have no perverse incentive to be mindless of taking chances, since we have already gone over it in hammock talk, too much, really, and too often we have raised a toast to the madness of it’s desperately over between the numbers (and how angry they get) and how it makes us crazy for the late poetry of Rene Ricard.
Sundial-changing sex contests a thousand bees stinging our feet
— after we polished the text and handed it in.
We chose photographs along a shuttered residence, had
an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins.
A sight to eat. Even a tremor of you goes around in concepts, calling
and backing it up with inexact and multiplying sounds
from what we were doing before updates [give us a second..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity?
I’m expelled from the pseudo mountain top on valentine’s last week.
The new vantage leaves us alone with our shopping boundaries, ibis fur, biker comics. Others enjoy leads to something or someone that’s opposite, blocking the view, accommodating path holders as non occasions of conflict, which also means “rescuing no one” (according to Wilhem and Baynes). But it never happens, and it’s not merely evil if Zigeunerliebe’s soft view sharpens ethical and esthetic focus on self-regard and the potential utility of badass fuckers, a baseline annulled.
I was sideswiping with you, among maples and acer pines, no contrivance or Schubertian opposition. It felt like what bouclé heats under pressure if it has a chance; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening its insipid menace while coddling the wetlands.
I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.
So I have returned to footage pitched toward infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no parts to fix; Schubert had blond hair and wore rimless glasses, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.
The wetlands are working that through. The words we had and didn’t have consequences. Learned good is bad is good. It shows up invisibly, and as unspeakably as libido constitutes a knowledge module, glistening aimlessly.
We’ll need smarter drywall too, to excite fern and bacteria growing inside due to everything about the yield, blowing in news of perpetual unitary joy...
If I voice a question mark at the end of feeling genreless, it becomes a pick-up line.
And your silence is tinctures or tints, much as / good was.
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, some interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of entrepreneurship; we’ll get back to you all —
10 gallons of the Hirsch, please, dayment-ready, fenduc w/ the crescent canonical tartelle in Diary of Bows, ah.
Attempting authenticity in insoluble speech, we paint firewalls. And by peril as usual we meant danger to the core.
I remember when politics was a machine. Wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title from Kristy South.
Hence the ‘political’ surface is discourse and action / or blood sport and games, what some call.
Caution is exercised improperly to preserve constructs protecting access to that core. The tattoo / equation is politicians = del quack w/ mascots (Our addendum is in the mouth.).
In a parallel caution Kristy needs a foot job. I shall touch you in his cling spot. (Someone once said correspondence is written better where it’s taught.) Also you and I like to dwell fully on future differences, on crispnesses in whispers in the air.
Hence his sleep is like a procedural language from NASA.