“Eponymous.” Elfin. Golf. Statue. Hindrance. Place-mark. Dorsal. Evident.
It came to me backwards. I had to catch it by its tail and write it down in reverse.
The Ultimate Have-Nots and the Willy Nillies. Caracticus Pots and the Merry Weathers. Formidable convictions and antipathy. The humours ran golden with bile, stacked on the rug like melted sand. An uproar in the warehouse led to roaring in the streets and tempered glass maligns. Invented for the sole purpose of having a middle finger. Two wasteful benches, settling. Over an understated little number, like two-point-seven. Miraculously, Spats Malloy and the Uptown Goslings. Hugo Bones, himself a wanton eruptor. Ordinarily and eventually fastidious, this currency of autumn patios. If there were to be a farce, the audio would play in tomes of three.
Make the force of it indent upon the soul, the stricture rent open by a tornado of invention.
Playful wicks of dynamite, we offered a sacrifice of melted crayons and Q-tips doused in Pine-sol.
Mostly spotted but slightly pale, the hairs fell out in patches shaped like Denmark.
Ultimately blue and occasionally gaseous, we injected the slotted spoon into the roiling cement. How can you be so callous and jacquard? How can it become sequestered and imminent? There is no need for the hypocrisy of movement or the icicles of stagnation.
I haven’t the clue(!) or the hourglass! Don’t tell me to orchestrate the revolution, the turning has happened seven times before. How can it be so materialized: the mechanics of a starfleet optioned for two sequels and a hairshirt? For it isn’t often that the employer will birth an oval or subdue a square; it isn’t in its nature.
Quietly alarming and sensitive to a fault, the crack lay bare, a salted wound in the painted landscape of verboten. It follows, naturally, that it wouldn’t bend, for in so doing, it would necessitate learning the downward dog of joy, that feckless horsen youth.
Orchard games and a penny hat offered under the watchful roof of birth and the vaulted ceiling of disuse.
Be open!, it screams, through the pinhole of time. Be open, says the pansy and his syllabant “S.” Have mercy, intones the gizzard and its wrapping, avoiding the factory line toward integration and osmosis. Its fist stands up, out of the plaid and plaintive oracle. Have mercy, to the ownership of the least visited oxen and the shearling plucked clean of their bark.
Haven’t you seen enough?, shouts the earthen sponge, itself a copy of a copy of a do-over. Itself the image of obstinacy and cool-hearted musings. Go forth unto the juicy rectangle of glorious disguise and effulgent harlequin patches. Argue with the intimacy of gated illusion, embolden the woolen sock of Time to its Vesuvian arguments. If it hasn’t the lateness or soggy artifice of neglect.
Go. Amber eyes of tabled journeys and sunken ordinances. Go. Turnstyles of hope and silken bodies. I haven’t the wormhole to stop you, nor the pageantry of resistance. Bastille yourself from the chains of undergrowth, the moss of stoplight madness.
I haven’t the gaul to malign you today, so step forth to the ultimate gaiety.