sentences! sentences! I need 500 by nightfall!

The people in the beer commercials, they have it so good, ya know.

So mention me, melt me, make me more mellow, make me like the network men, morphing into a monster, modelling brain drain complainants and profane, medieval usurious anti-Inquisitional interest payments?

The unused men all over the earth. Such a pity, the waste of good minds, leads to vine-climbing, over the fence, a fifty-dollar trespassing fine.

The yellow school bus or pickup truck or love in the back seat with ‘Isaac Hayes moonlight’ and a piece of good luck. Mmm, lovers and liquid, liplock and rub-a-dub, leech love, sucking on each other as we rage against the tick-tock.

Portions preferential inversely based on age, you sidestep the post-supper sweets with cringe-inducing contortionism; the freed men in the descent downstairs into sawmills munching on gorgonzola amid rumours of a bishopric gone astray the locust dewpoint the aria the breakfast in bed and the green glowing light signalling a telephone call, it all reminds me of mute-button hotpoint-flashpoint pressed flowers, tall towers, the stolid reliable strength of middle-class manpower. Hours and hours I wait, elate upon admission, it’s a metaphysical condition, this semantic elision, an act of contrition, really, to hoist me from perdition. Fusion or fission, a nuclear lyricism, it’s light from a prism, a movement in dada, to remove us all from the prison. (and as Cosby would say, ‘it’s all about the fizz-um.’)

Binaural murmurings smack me from my moping, the floating Godzilla pillows the pied piper in alleyways leads us rats out into ocean air, salt spray cleansing every one (rodents and man with big Scottish buns, it was double the fun, we saw and we ran, I smile and I run). It was Easter: I was smothered in music, we walked through the Stations of the Cross, radio stations blaring; petty parochial or exegetical politics don’t sway me; though polite, my mammoth double burgers mollify my warty waxy neurosis, no it’s not psychosis; familial closeness allows me to boast this: I’m like the bloke with the most-est; I’m both the party, and the hostess. You provincial boyscouts can’t change me, and despite all appearances this federally funded flaming firing fedora-n-trenchcoat mafia ain’t so lazy, I just tease thee, really; it looks like joking, another attempt at an ‘ism’, yes, but it’s not so easy living when you’re losing all religion.

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