Friday, October 31, 2008


Takeita Pärt, no wan and understanding "How" hand
can you dew justice, do this to yourself. Ball lancing
a longpole chin, seeing ooze and bruise of foliage and
blue sunlight skinned, pace above, Takeita. At the same
time, you have not forgotten the attendant bitch, but, being
occupied solely with making fag-ends meet to turkey fuck,
or the endless believers that will it to live, raised in divine meat
secrecy, an impotent yet inadvisible dresstiny, goes unfulfilled.
If the dappled crows and noon plumes ever trough the answering
you, your brave answer would be like the sunny cow of heavy
multiplicatively designed maroon saddles like Spanish castles,
convinced of mincing measure's message: It knows best, maybe
having forgotten some average day of lily-headed opossoms with
black powder heirloom blunderbusshoes. But for this, she looked
longish as a clothespin caught in the grassy hourglass of thyme, the
rime and firelings of midnight's etched Submariner, an important
Atlantean dude. That is like sunscreen sometimes. So many red
brick patterns to choose from, that they are the colliding in
escormorants of all these dispirited illustrations on our living toadstool
minds, that will rise in time like temperate literature's litorturature, and
mean us, and then faint away, like hovering pharmacies of gravelly
china elephants slowly exploding, the long buck-toothed counters
where solemn sea horses play some ancient game called
"STOP" instead of go, Daimons and Demonchi-chi's dancing
in the cavernous heads of Mochi Gucci gomi googoo:

"A bride with thick panties, names you head of the Aeronautics division.."

Takeita Pärt, no one understands how toucans just undo these
Toyo-Urselfs balancing. With a long polar china set, and
Seething among the brooze of foliage blue scuntlight aboven'd,
A timeless samurai time you fine fish have not gorgotten...

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.