doctah, i tell you a 'friend of mine' could not hurt a fly even a wallbang nymph/past dreadful manna episodes of another world daytime serial drama. she admits measureable acquaintence with cicada candied tea and ceremonial fireant troopers watching bob hope crack a whip joke. she will even confess to sharing the expense of numerous thelonius monk tapdancing theory lessons with an eight-legged yoda two semesters. “you know evil wink what happens when you keep a pet spider?” I told her poke whisper but she can’t still - a free persian carpet ride p.s. i love you.
The precise plying of wood method demonstrates how you run the xm squeekbox 24/7 on the classical space station peter pan iron-on shadow born unclouded in the punjab he says. lovely, Jainist mayor’s niece owns the carved bamboo-handle yarrow-bristled malachite-powdered pearljamb ticket-fringe broom with heated sapphires and lustering ruby pellets, it sweeps away any meet-not-really-by-chance-shall-we-dance ayurvedic events on the path before footfall to waylay a grave battery an ant would deem significant no electricity.
he cocked his head, the growth pattern appears to be due to the variation in mitotic index, heart like wheel he says. It has been studied in the fibroblasts of two normal individuals and five who tested mannequin vacation syndrome, and the results repeated in the experiment several documented proofs, the ghost is smaller than what microcosm isn’t smaller than the wings to how you got over to evolve the campaign. with a one heterozygote at a time policy cubre libre bones at the bottom seep into the beyond alan watts timothy leary out of body experience part-time earwig moth he says.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
S.B.T. 31
are you kidding do you think anyone would believe that? yes for sure we're talking about brainless for incitement, something like a bic lighter goes off and they become mangy sweatdrop rage easily shed, the armjab joke cirque de soleil darkside everybody loves a loser lets see how lost we can make this guy. he’s got too much family a powershort seat on the hill and what about the o’sheas and the fine lebanese rolled millet pickle types, they all need a voice (my voice that is ha) said the newspaper jack-in-the-box a journalist in polite company. permanent cosmetic accent grave eyebrow grey lint on his jacket. not just being a slapshot people poke the firelog, it’s that some of his friends would rather be there too, and forcefeed pablum manifestation down the throats of big baby huey sleepwalkers cloutish on whose existence can barely be covered with vaseline smeared on the negative, bent balinese shadow puppets made out of window screening loose at the edge. anyway as much as you can love an idiot you won’t vote for him right? so let’s put this out there and toast who’s gonna get burned, ha ha U R toast he said, he called them “asswipes” and as soon as it was heard well it was all over i mean you can’t ignore a word like that and it cojos up such a silly image of cabbages as soon it hits the ground they run maybe literally, lets be over your head fatso.
my poor thing i waaaaaant my thing is what the wizard is saying behind the oz curtain. i’ve always had my thing until yous ferrinners started making your traditional lasagna bagel urchin seaside fancies, ugh its disgusting cowgrass back at home, you don’t use aluminum in your spanish maja deodorant soap so you have this nonconformist smell and you look tall dark i mean short dark and wiry just plain creepy right ballguys um uh well? but i like that penelope cruz dame she’s a dark willow dream if we could have one. yeah. and let me know if any of his family talks.
my poor thing i waaaaaant my thing is what the wizard is saying behind the oz curtain. i’ve always had my thing until yous ferrinners started making your traditional lasagna bagel urchin seaside fancies, ugh its disgusting cowgrass back at home, you don’t use aluminum in your spanish maja deodorant soap so you have this nonconformist smell and you look tall dark i mean short dark and wiry just plain creepy right ballguys um uh well? but i like that penelope cruz dame she’s a dark willow dream if we could have one. yeah. and let me know if any of his family talks.
Monday, July 21, 2008
S.B.T. 26
I can’t even look at myself sideways, never mind facing up, she said under exile. If it hadn’t been for the deep-fried carnival, sticky throat-burning cotton ghastlypink candy and the mexican girls pink stuffed donkey on her uncle’s back, the chainlink alloy shackle bells old buttercream popcorn stench and oiled biceps, maybe everything would have been different, maybe less pink. Turquoise stones set in dented fried aluminum nickel cheap stuff. Nothing good but it’s pretty in a found object junkyard wine party way. Footstep soft focus abstract echo glass chips flitter off the streetlight and click off the shoes alone alone in the magictime night performance astray cat wander.
Sometimes I see faces drift through my nightmare television, she told me tight sourstink room window on a distressed tumble rock backside, his phone the little knicknacks scattered across the desk he didn’t move or that his shirt was pink, he made promises unintelligable made him thin pride ivy league inaccessible. Act one smart confusion wrong monopoly hotel indiana avenue yellow the boot charm cutting through black lines arranged in neat squares.
How can anyone conjecture the prediction of who is that sunrise welt of sliding dew on the McCartney rose petal stillness? Or answer an offering to join a candles in the grouphug wheel on a spin around don juans castenada nagual?
Angela her name was, but she was alexandrina maria de costa and her sister deolinda. She actually asked me if I wanted to be saved, from what I whisper, from hip, she said. You can’t be saved with that hippopotamus she said. I said I like my hippo, he’s strong he has kerouac. Unheard of she said like an inca minstral, nobody knows if the tree fell. I don’t wanna be saved I said. Well OK but I will check out your captain she said. Why, I said would you do that, just being polite she said.
My eyes don’t follow the strangle notch pages, she said I use books for doorstopper, it’s more practical. Where did you learn that utile futile I said, huh she said. Where in the mad hatter’s pocket theory of correctness fit? what’s practical got to do with it. The milky way spiral about like that.
Sometimes I see faces drift through my nightmare television, she told me tight sourstink room window on a distressed tumble rock backside, his phone the little knicknacks scattered across the desk he didn’t move or that his shirt was pink, he made promises unintelligable made him thin pride ivy league inaccessible. Act one smart confusion wrong monopoly hotel indiana avenue yellow the boot charm cutting through black lines arranged in neat squares.
How can anyone conjecture the prediction of who is that sunrise welt of sliding dew on the McCartney rose petal stillness? Or answer an offering to join a candles in the grouphug wheel on a spin around don juans castenada nagual?
Angela her name was, but she was alexandrina maria de costa and her sister deolinda. She actually asked me if I wanted to be saved, from what I whisper, from hip, she said. You can’t be saved with that hippopotamus she said. I said I like my hippo, he’s strong he has kerouac. Unheard of she said like an inca minstral, nobody knows if the tree fell. I don’t wanna be saved I said. Well OK but I will check out your captain she said. Why, I said would you do that, just being polite she said.
My eyes don’t follow the strangle notch pages, she said I use books for doorstopper, it’s more practical. Where did you learn that utile futile I said, huh she said. Where in the mad hatter’s pocket theory of correctness fit? what’s practical got to do with it. The milky way spiral about like that.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
S.B.T. 22
modesty the dancer
leaps fate shadow
not spent of labor and loot, lumber
nor desiring previous days anything
to forward future replacements.
the peace measure, only morning
the mask of times intrusive
mens startle stun or soothe
her stasis en pointe through thunder
and birdcalls waving young rope
her bottle cage is no walls
drive dimension to disappear
heart stamp, stone of solace
and fall into the rough linen
turtle neck bootstraps desert
suspense strain the ear to attend
listen
not of want
to make man from music
the om bowstring
leaps fate shadow
not spent of labor and loot, lumber
nor desiring previous days anything
to forward future replacements.
the peace measure, only morning
the mask of times intrusive
mens startle stun or soothe
her stasis en pointe through thunder
and birdcalls waving young rope
her bottle cage is no walls
drive dimension to disappear
heart stamp, stone of solace
and fall into the rough linen
turtle neck bootstraps desert
suspense strain the ear to attend
listen
not of want
to make man from music
the om bowstring
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
S.B.T. 21
Tawny Singleton lives on the third berth shoreline mammoth down by the veteran’s park, on the inside elbow of the bay. Her outlook is all placid ripples and jellyfish, white-bottom floating spoons and beach bum buoys. I always envied her laundry, the double-stacked coiled windows in the breezeway.
Yesterday she surprise clap one hand, carrying a leather pontoon handle, in it was an amiable shiver old grey cat. “She’s been longing on the withered post,” she salted pretzel, “I ought to know you might be western medicine on that,” she added prayer wheel plate.
Uhhuh, I looked at her bugle cartoon eyes, yellow with green fingers. We packed her into the ball bearings and slicked across the old storyland, to the smells like ammonia lily paw-legged nurse behind the strip mall brick dust.
“She’s a grizzly,” Doctor Rizzley said cat in the hat. “Let’s x-ray her pummels and formal doodah her pushpin filters.” A snail biter, she came out and said, “She’s an old buzzard with malfeasance lost babies, I can see the rouge rings and prefects of obvious.”
“I can’t have it,” Tawny spilled sweet sour chutney. “I’ll graduate her to the mob then,” I offered with unspirit dissolve sugar-water. I keep trying to pardon the escapable limits and keep the red fences from mushroom ears rot.
Back at the cement block dander house, old grey Elsa Miranda timid toes circled the foray and sniffed a comely spot. Geebo, a wild momma frisk, had a batch of boobins three weeks ago, she was shifting them from baskets and cleaning up the ripe refunds, and she was getting a sagged edge droop in her feathers. Two of the boobs were underage jam jars and I was struck out on dreamtime, sweating the small stuff on the borders, wondering if I’d dig the planters again, fire, candidas, mourning doves.
At golden fuzz daybreak creeping, I found the Geebo had given Elsa Miranda three out of seven pulsating droplets and there they were, swimming in the warm smelted skin florabunda, two bookends with a secret nauticus shared poop. I had to laugh at the fast plunder code. Not to swear armstrongs, not to sachet Chopin on the marimba hood top, these were two sturdy weather spittoons, and they know what to do with no human dodgeballs.
Yesterday she surprise clap one hand, carrying a leather pontoon handle, in it was an amiable shiver old grey cat. “She’s been longing on the withered post,” she salted pretzel, “I ought to know you might be western medicine on that,” she added prayer wheel plate.
Uhhuh, I looked at her bugle cartoon eyes, yellow with green fingers. We packed her into the ball bearings and slicked across the old storyland, to the smells like ammonia lily paw-legged nurse behind the strip mall brick dust.
“She’s a grizzly,” Doctor Rizzley said cat in the hat. “Let’s x-ray her pummels and formal doodah her pushpin filters.” A snail biter, she came out and said, “She’s an old buzzard with malfeasance lost babies, I can see the rouge rings and prefects of obvious.”
“I can’t have it,” Tawny spilled sweet sour chutney. “I’ll graduate her to the mob then,” I offered with unspirit dissolve sugar-water. I keep trying to pardon the escapable limits and keep the red fences from mushroom ears rot.
Back at the cement block dander house, old grey Elsa Miranda timid toes circled the foray and sniffed a comely spot. Geebo, a wild momma frisk, had a batch of boobins three weeks ago, she was shifting them from baskets and cleaning up the ripe refunds, and she was getting a sagged edge droop in her feathers. Two of the boobs were underage jam jars and I was struck out on dreamtime, sweating the small stuff on the borders, wondering if I’d dig the planters again, fire, candidas, mourning doves.
At golden fuzz daybreak creeping, I found the Geebo had given Elsa Miranda three out of seven pulsating droplets and there they were, swimming in the warm smelted skin florabunda, two bookends with a secret nauticus shared poop. I had to laugh at the fast plunder code. Not to swear armstrongs, not to sachet Chopin on the marimba hood top, these were two sturdy weather spittoons, and they know what to do with no human dodgeballs.
Friday, July 11, 2008
S.B.T. 20
She was not the brand label girl Mother hoped Giles would end up with. “She’s kinda braised oatmeal,” she lowered her eyebrows, and then raised them up, her lady Shelly to the teatime side. “A nice girl though, but pale and dandruffy”. “Oh do be critical vermouth,” Shelly winked at her, all rubine flush. “Well, OK, she dances, by herself in the mossy living-room, laughs chin floats, and a long mid-calf curtain.” “Upon the my oh my, as the Captain would say,” Shelly vermiculated the seedlings. “I just don’t see what he reaps in the culls,” Mother added, shaking her head open to bye bye birdie.
Giles well kept anticipated glassine barometer in this case, as confounded as Mother, but beheaded antipathy when the bolt hit the crown. The first time he saw her, she was jumping off the sofa, giggling possessed with newfound here it is. It might have been the way her porkchop hair flanged like shingles. It was a mustard rust. Short with no accents, “Just a doo-wop blob” Mother said. He cringed but then laughed at the dream of seeing her at the bazaar in the tartans with those moves. The clan would be there abrupt cold soup, melting statuettes over the cheese.
She was no wanton burger, that was the fact, but who she is unfitted his lacings. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of his friends would want to keep her, and that gave him a sense of monkey dues not owed. He could imagine her mothering his loincloth hostings and feeding the babies with dribble corner, she’d smell of noodles and dried fern. She’d be a lifelong projectile vacancy, always welcome to the wet swimmer goosebumps.
Giles wanted to see her in the peas and carrots, wanted to wipe the windshield with her dry foccacia pillows, wanted to see if she will meld in the flickering timepiece, wanted to have her epoxy stick flagpole, wanted to try to make her sunburst steam bubbles over the thick black solar cookpot. He was ravenously in a spell of bewitched blah meadow, felt like he could stick to her guns, she didn’t have the wherewithall to weave a hempen noose of any kind, she’d be like a breeze over the parchment.
“She isn’t special perfume,” Mother whispered, “but she’s wax.” “Must be true intestines,” Shelly mused flunk out. The porcelain gold rims brimmed with sepia. A little lemon and a sprig of calendula tarragon sperm bank. Crisp egg cookies in the irish tin.
Maddy, they called her, though there was no demon handshake and much lavendar aerosol. You’d not think african sheep dance, or blazed Milanese studs. Giles in the window bath agreed it was steel-cut oats all right, cooked to a slimy invitation of stewballs, with no advent bright color but just a plain loaf.
Giles well kept anticipated glassine barometer in this case, as confounded as Mother, but beheaded antipathy when the bolt hit the crown. The first time he saw her, she was jumping off the sofa, giggling possessed with newfound here it is. It might have been the way her porkchop hair flanged like shingles. It was a mustard rust. Short with no accents, “Just a doo-wop blob” Mother said. He cringed but then laughed at the dream of seeing her at the bazaar in the tartans with those moves. The clan would be there abrupt cold soup, melting statuettes over the cheese.
She was no wanton burger, that was the fact, but who she is unfitted his lacings. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of his friends would want to keep her, and that gave him a sense of monkey dues not owed. He could imagine her mothering his loincloth hostings and feeding the babies with dribble corner, she’d smell of noodles and dried fern. She’d be a lifelong projectile vacancy, always welcome to the wet swimmer goosebumps.
Giles wanted to see her in the peas and carrots, wanted to wipe the windshield with her dry foccacia pillows, wanted to see if she will meld in the flickering timepiece, wanted to have her epoxy stick flagpole, wanted to try to make her sunburst steam bubbles over the thick black solar cookpot. He was ravenously in a spell of bewitched blah meadow, felt like he could stick to her guns, she didn’t have the wherewithall to weave a hempen noose of any kind, she’d be like a breeze over the parchment.
“She isn’t special perfume,” Mother whispered, “but she’s wax.” “Must be true intestines,” Shelly mused flunk out. The porcelain gold rims brimmed with sepia. A little lemon and a sprig of calendula tarragon sperm bank. Crisp egg cookies in the irish tin.
Maddy, they called her, though there was no demon handshake and much lavendar aerosol. You’d not think african sheep dance, or blazed Milanese studs. Giles in the window bath agreed it was steel-cut oats all right, cooked to a slimy invitation of stewballs, with no advent bright color but just a plain loaf.
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