They brought me up at six, diligent soldiers of the low gun nation, an early suppose with minimum repose, dubbed early morn, and I knocked at the pearly score until the clams finally lost, and one citizen mollusk brought back to lustre with spit and grease and a few precious ounces of shine juice.
Get out the word, Dutch. Bring prithy and Gwynny or haphazard the effin’ fool who steals the sand guinea dollar shatter dream pocket nightward, keels back to find puka shell memory and a strand of buy-none get-none bond royalties. Capsize dolt ethics, pocket skyward taught medial skill set mendicant bonescape, or the saints, starching gin, while mobile Maurys stand attentive with the sordid scoop.
Orzo rice folly and Ouzo dreams, your slight and gauzy ballyhoo, blink thrice and tell me the image is in sync with the vision and/or/if the viewer. If not, curry up the guts to squint. That slit window is your chance to flatten earth, to retrograde from 3D to the transcendental dimensionless, where the only coordinate is a single immeasurable pinpoint of existence. Wet Speed and Waffle Toss, next three concurrent Thursdays.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment