mutterings into a milk-wet beard

Posted by Rich Magahiz Sat, 14 Sep 2013 22:02:00 GMT

Lots of holes

Image credit: Lots of holes by rob patrick

Boneless rib joined to delectable spineless spine surmounted by a skull that is the tenderest cut of soft bland white meat only, nothing to stand in the way of the all-cleaving incisors marching onward to victory over the simple shmoo who seeks only to please the palates of a grateful nation every ever-loving day of the good old year regardless of national origin or presence of pigment cells hither coming like the little minx we all once knew dripping with beet syrup from the corners of the pouting mouth painted up in deathless acrylic for the silly season according to the pandit who’s taken up the mantle of our secular administration and replaced it with a fully carnivorous regime armed with gumdrop-tipped prods that the children love so precisely and yet so bashfully despite slate-browed newsreaders who cannot read what has been provided for mass consumption on the part of sheeple bearing dolorous countenances on account of the reversal of the trade winds the borrowers brought from their bankrupt quasar to beset a careworn slate of ragpickers whose only tablets are the kinds that taste of calcium between the molars, twice daily and four times on Moundsday in order to build curvy gentlefolk openly flirting and ducking under haystacks to carry out their divided congress with bits of unfortunate percussions unfit for wizened schoolgirls to poke a pruny forefinger at nine-tenths of twenty four out of a full week spent toiling the toilet plunger until salt water would finally start to come up just as Democritus had predicted here up under his sweaty Yucatan that nobody cares to disinfect as desired both on prime weekdays and choice selectman birthyears under the sign of the numbat infant crime statute a legislator sharpened most of the ridonkulous otaku who played a serene guitar, one string short of genius, they all said, but that wasn’t the kind of thing that would sway you under the grip of the loa of late morning this April breezeway cavitating beneath Allied propellors designed most notably by Euler the stupid Nazi whoreson with that astounding fielding percentage that most of the teams who were rebuilding had factored into their structural integrity calculations under the watchful eye of the casino security detail (half of them Yemeni), veritable dinosaurs with cycad spores to prove it, though if their money was half as nutritious as their glandworks your sister ought to pray the chaste pianists never find out about it, you dig? and if so, then why not, say the closet Marxists, whose main appeal to the infrared walrusmen should not be minimized if a cocaine lollipop can be said to have “miraculous” properties in a laboratory setting that consists mainly of white stockings trimmed in lacewing undertow courtesy of the granduncle who stood out on the heath proclaiming an imperial ransom to the tails of Etruscans we once revered no less than Rilke himself when a wise crone pointed a piebald spindle approximately 2.8 degrees off of the background that kept my boy awake dreaming marmite fantasies studded with whole horseradish root, to the butcher’s disgust as long as specific Klanswomen are gruntled, the Mau-Mau shall not be interfered with.

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