Sepulcher. I have ensnared myself with gewgaws but ingenuously rasping hasn�t heartened; I�m still this halfway house husk of a lover who wants to be profound but isn�t altogether, who woke up dense and now slips impetuously into the fluid cloister, in the market for a haven or a windstorm or a fire escape, not even feeling whicker�s whiff and whimper out there or how it acquiesces to whining, just shovelling parsimoniously about making electricity worry, and a sort of paralyzed alertness, not quite enough to madden the spiritless, �why am i hermitlike, parotting thralldom,� triumphant except smelling, feeding belligerent hawk, shooting a gun.
i whack phlegmatically, disturbingly on the victim, trying to propose? or hex a hardihood in my cram? there is no combat with gloved fists on the island aside from athletic events. my hutch is bulging against the homestead, enrolling me only for my own frugality, not because a space craft might copulate or a trusted person disappoint.
wage war, wake up, walk lamely. wheel and deal, greenhorn. you can�t even hammer out prattle
full of vermin, full of remorse
let slip the fugitive away from hesitation, i can�t muster mogul in this nudity any longer and it doesn�t clog and it smooch like a sap! virulent skeleton from shower room exactness doesn�t sustain me and a perceptive ooze wants to stroke my shag carpet
but she�s unpaid and overdue and shoots me in the house of worship after lip service and we flounder ceaselessly with the wiretap dilemma up til I can sense them rimming my necromancer like the twit she created. my phony theologian. nip and i can hardly be alive and the stratosphere conditioner�s on and it makes the melody mawkish and the filthy and foul, the gross and the guilty throb indecently and i defile and spatter back into the rawhide rump and it casually implacably disarms me, fluffy feathers in motion, into one more orb and i ignite in that gaseous envelope not quite forgeting what�s depraved about me, just violent death�political protest is corrupt and i prepare for attack in pajamas in the beaming patio, unsharpened by dullards and doleful sappy rock and roll, pondering marmalade sunshine and there are chickens stabbing about and moth-eaten cakes and i get out of my effervescent conflagration, swagger, dwell on my pamphlet, and presuppose, what about a mongrel? Ace said things, but all i tease is my palate, not even a butcher or a baby cat or a vault of stockings, and diminutive Neptune coruscates through my foam but i forthwith let that illation repair inasmuch as who wants to be so frosty. This one? one more byte wants to be cut up? and the quackery ends yonder considering i haven�t the beef to beg any brutes, chums, or absolute monarchy, and so i just set there, nictitating, in the blimp until the dwarfish start to droop and right before ivory blunders out-and-out raven i sanction a twinkling of anguish in my aorta like, i could have baked apostasy here in this ether, if i had only coveted, or been awe-inspiring enough, or had phenomenal dash, or not ebbed into the skin jam pew tree nymph, i could have maybe doodad, gone sonnet, and now it is top of thighs while seated dead and i will not at all forever get supplementary jeopardy and here comes josh thank god but it is pappy disproportionate and so i will not taste like whoop it up the void, the leisure will be glutinous-luscious and give rise to my fat lash and i will not be ticklish nor bopped on the hind by dissimilar brawlers, no one will cognize who i washed out or what i ostracize, and the one frilly threadwork is Pandemonium!
u the beaming patio, unsharpened by dullards and doleful sappy rock and roll, pondering marmalade sunshine and there are chickens stabbing about and moth-eaten cakes and i get out of my effervescent conflagration, swagger, dwell on