Apr30--subconscious

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We are here together in the opium fields. I surprise your father with the bicep flexed in the waning augusty moonlight and the last thing we decided was to eat fish in the blank moonlight and the only thing we ever decided was to encounter that evening while the descent of man over the bridge of sighs and ketchup never fixed itself in the winter of discontent and the failure of time to end the genocidal impulse, the wrecked hull of this ship where we lick chips. Saviour of the glue factory, empty throne of lies on which Satan Claus sits interred in the log jam of the yellow-fevered ghetto. Underwear frailty and the hegemony of the igloo ayatollah, infer from this I fear I’m ordinary compared to polyp and perforce I propel people populations per capita in painstaking pulpy colonies to sodomy. Lethal intubations of the weal of quail fighters yields no benefits until the June moon comes undone and we glorify the black vault until the sun shines and the cave of Xerxes destroyed reveals the mansion of coral and the violence zings and undulates unspeakably polluted for the rigor mortis of yesterday’s news man. Kodiak bears flaunt the fright of the garish helmeted warriors walking marching off to suicide and the poison of the yellow bark of birch trees, and the janissary of Turkey was always and forever excluded from the reindeer games when the queen of the road offered pizza pockets to the protection rackets jailed in the prison of the Golan heights north of the tagus river. Look out, gargoyle. Harrowing oaf velvet banana and climax of Zen! Mildew centuries wither and the recording of the Inverness database explodes ponderous; heretofore it’s a harpsichord. Magma harpies and the valkyries, the bakeries and fakeries inward seeking praise of the manna of Desdemona and Horatio: I dream of your philosophy it is true too true I love glue and I sniff poo. Jaded fealty and the benevolent mulling of the mullahs and the bacon version of chicken was a decided failure. Kellogg rocks with milk filters through the sandwich aisles of the supermarket without Somali curry and zoological pollutants wriggling without cease into the trout farms and the inharmonious desert. Bath night-times and the failure of tornado and the keeping in tone with the metronome ogles the fairy flipping wrists in midst of the typhoon, gangly and French under duress from the emissary locked in his hatchback pocketbook. Lethal regicide weathers the fried nutmeg motorways cacophony until everglade ibexes chirp intensely looking perversely out at Dolomite valleys. Dream of a falcon, hasten toward eagle flight popularity of the yard wenches faulting the kook lathering the soap quiet and verbose much like Juno the troll of the last ship ever set sail from the coast off Cagliari. With stereotypical Sardinian sardonicism, the tacit trusting look forgotten, dismissed as crooked and lisping, Meinong wrenched four galaxies of scarlet over the toast yard into the police helicopter, expediting the last jacketed leather spelling into the raging ether sunset.