Dunk is square to what I want him to be, Dunk is a bloke I met again and again. Dunk is a tramp with his clothes and his hair. Dunk is a tank, an HGV and a plank, a two deck lorry of shiny cars, a skip that sits outside my door. Dunk lives in a glass with the window open, he sings about folk and times to curfew. There are people about who stand in wings keeping the choke for admiration.
Dunk is my dad and plays the saxophone like President Clinton. In the early years he waged his legs in beer like Mr. Bandy knows Guinness and rhyme. It became the stage of barley and rum to think that teeth were pairs of trousers clang to the gong.
There are concerts all over Britain where Dunk makes pastry for pleasure that no-one understands. He drawls fast words about an island where clover and whisky are the same shade of green. In days of yore, there is a score and that’s what daffodils and posies grow from.
Not all tramps live in the hedge, but that’s where I met Dunk. He was all settled beneath leaves of lime, like St. Francis of Assisi, one s short of Mississippi, holding a microphone made of crocuses. He didn’t say much about the verge but there were goldfish in nearby puddles that burbled on about Dr. Foster’s departures to Gloucester. The position of the verge was an exact location, like the time when Arthur found sword and when Moses walked the sea bed. It was particular to fantasy in the form of permission. The trees understood that they were underhand hairstyles in the relative scheme of covering skulls cleverly. Clumps of parsley.
The first thing he said to me smelt like floating pinches of malt. He wore large platform shoes that were flat as the earth rounds articles. ‘Let’s get a deck chair’ he smiled, reaching for the hollow by bluebells. He rigged up two that were made from stag antlers slung with moss, according chi Fix It.
It had been a walk when Armstrong scuffed his boots on the moon but the sky is mainly rocket based, propelled by engines and re-constituted whey. From the verge, the mantle split in half as a mid month shadow makes light and dark shed nostrils. Such a place had no choice except the memory of how it would. The moss was comfortable, not queasy, wet or exceptional even in the valley.
There are years by the hundred when calamity makes cheese, matter is coincided. The best sense of persecution is to prevent and masses of books aren’t furtively read. A chameleon keeps a diary of where to tread and cover ground. Things that move have passports found so they can book into Bs&Bs. Milk and honey come by jars of shelf life, farms to cities, galaxies book the meteoric.
It was a Monday to Sunday-night at this place and bullfrogs were charming. You may be thinking Leopard and Kid, Lion and Lamb, but there were no sirens of number to hand. It was play school’s window with old flake in the warm-up lounge drinking scales of coffee without the dust of spectacle.
Sign language is a funny truth to square. Twinkle Toes wear brilliant shoes for tapping with their fingers.
The band does sticks on drums in shangalangalang. Touring a Claudian wood to turn by brooks, bells and lilly petals strung to guts.
Paragraphs of fancy line the motorway with Little Chefs and Granadas. There’s a sign for one with twenty miles ahead on the M six, another in twenty four. A mysterious edge is always granted for breakdown, sausages for fat, polystyrene for cups of where to go?
In the story of enchantment, girls and boys play forest in Sherwood. Lassie fetches help and lassoes ring beasts of misadventure. Skirt high mothers are cloudy judges of preoccupation, small is their achievement. Big Daddies on the road hurdle bogus obstacles.
The plum about Dunk is always introduction. As a character of fiction he sticks to salutation. It’s like the writing on carrier bags that go everywhere without moving shop. Narnia to the wardrobe, growl to the lion, thunder to storm, tablet to commandment, boom, shake, shake, shake the room. Big Dunk of obvious from what Dunk is, not primula, is not accordian, nor Rory, punk, apostrophe. Pharmaceutically, Dunk is legally bound to a shrink’s metaphor.
As ridiculous, Freud is entertaining, as pernicious he wears tweed.
St. Francis sings the Bill of Rights from the oldest book of twitter publish aviary. It might seem that meeting up in the verge is insincere to bravery. The languish of anguish is this place of invention, streams that run up hillsides. There’s an old pot soaking in the sink which has a right for cleaning. The washing up brush will sort it in a swivel swirl, and Miss Bounty will look to it again for encores in risotto.
In the water babies, grains of rice flush down the sink to the brink where stones are sweets and colours rinsed. A mockery of what happens if lunch is done without applause. The kid says ‘May I’ to repeat question. Commands to get down are answered in question.
There is nothing special about Pot Noodle apart from convenience and whacky company. Zany affords peaches in a cup, the all in one of James Is Giant. It’s the food of bowling alley heroics. It’s the instruction about the Water Level which allows for excess. Sweet and sour is coping for the choice. The distinct difference about noodles and grated cheese is that noodles preserve in strings for orchestras of easy lays no cutlery.
Cookery programs have methods about worth and convenience. Dried food is a marvellous bargain for Helen MacArthur and Sir Ranulph Fiennnes. Absorbing the myth loves to drench a protocol factory for everyone to buy a turn. The environment of piece is tastiest on hill, its also the forbidden friendship of rabbits in hillsides, badgers in gardens and discoveries that marr an awesome chunky plot.
A bit of the same loaf is as toil to match speed. There are some who may be interested to know more about the Garden of Paradise, based as it is on secrets. Some look to the motorway with interest, looking to Hull on how to cast an anchor. The miniature kitchen of arms and legs will dish out on cookery, how to shop and what expression to wear avoids capture. Pot noodlers shall be exalted as hearts of preparation.
The Dunk of what is there and what isn’t is here has biscuits shearing, the wooly mammoth gagging with shame for appearing on how shorn might look, whose after the fleece and what people do in jumpers.
There’s a romantic lead that does tenderness to perfection. Learned it at the RSC calls heart strings by the script even though what learns is more about you than you do. What you do is sit and watch and what you do is clap and mend the interval. So much practice can listen with more ears, thank God is a tingle, Oh dear is a blow. Tingles and blows for breezes and hymns, but ultimately, force is a nice cream man that won’t complain.
Illustration is more to the point in art, a stop’s penance to talk at Hogarth. Tell me sir, Why should I burp after this fashion? Taking breakfast on time usually does before eleven.
There’s a thing called Watchdog that measures in Customer Service, a Pot noodle of what went wrong in culinary, footwear, appliance, sticky irons, dodgy boasters. After many years of living on the street, Mrs Live knows the compartments. She knows how to vent in the public interest of her own, sometimes it’s kind to give a dog a bone.
Dunk knows Mrs. Live and where the labyrinth is. Mrs Live plugs in her Hoover and the dog forgets for wheres to roam. Roam and Labyrinth both explore what is trodden in. Dunk never treads in anything can’t get out of. At least Mrs. Live has a whistle and a dust bag. For that she is responsible, but thankful to MAZDA for high price bargains. ‘Dunk’ prefers to beat the carpet and let Mrs. Live do the shake and vac.
Lorry sized in Kansas, Dunk fits just as well to the speed machine by vote. Today is brass haddocks for an argonaut cat on the hill. Today is my election to go where I shall. The romans road of the RSC is an AA map from A to Z. Whole kingdoms follow with interest, but some of them can read soil by square. The people in the eye of the picture would all end up in Dunk’s Sherwood leaving their sandwich packets as proof of could. They may not be after Dunk specifically, for each town of man remembers the forest or the hum of bees.
Dunk’s metaphor for fatherland is as a supremely singled out parent, two nostril metaphor. He presides casual fame with a keener sense of breath than Mr’s Live’s suction. Half the painting is a sky that shelters carrots and motor ways, mountains and municipalities. Sky can see in the dark unlike earth, water or fires which have limits to keep in touch.
Okay, so it’s been qualified that Dunk is hard to find directly or to pin down. He’s got joined up words of slippery jelly better to wobble handling than to command. Like those toffee airplanes in that write messages in loops, woops, is a mistake Mr. Allen.
When I first played the orphanage, it was just about the end of the road. Granny was the switch, and home was a swaddle to outward bound. The nativity prescribed me an angel which suited the halo of learning catch frisbee.
What I wouldn’t do to swallow a lie is as like as name to poetry. The word is a drum to a lady in pearls. The sword is as sharp as the hand to doll. Welcome home is a jig with a mate, animals are crocodiles from Australian times. Learning what the eye is to you is to me, portions disclose near to the front to the lobe. Men are bashful now and chase against for always was religion. The nature of conditional care has few likes and dislikes and calls for assembly. A problem shared is a problem halved for profits made in golden bars. Horses clop and dogs can bark as man attends neglects and cares, very watchful to call upon obedience. Little children out of danger tell themselves one day the same.
There needs to be some kind of body to understand why insolence sleeps around. A good body that lies with convictions on tomorrow’s plans not prophecy. Help can stock a fridge and can but swallow customers. Policy derives to learn that a hot day in jeopardy is not as cool as stopping. Some like it hot as Tennessee, some fetch a Sampras ball.
The time comes when stop is doing this, learned is returned. Caesar says ‘What was done?’ as a citizen deranged for leaving slaves. Caesar’s policy meets dietary requirements in salads served all over the place. ‘It is better to eat, Caesar.’
There’s a long time when the captive, not yet a slave reads what is in front without confrontation. It’s like, that is your language of my position. It becomes superlative and guest landscapes don’t bother about packets or tweets of conscience. It’s like ‘Oh, so this is Hawaii, the way a steeple is brought up on gravity. Barabas is pleased by what he can learn, he may not be called Barabus and so he may. May is his my, like the passing rights of spring. He’s passed off as a bore for sheep with matted coats though thistles are what he’s kept for. He moults with a U because he sees Englishness to dictionary.
Most learning is informative, but faced on comprehension the but is as significant, the stress as deliberate. Homework is a complete struggle for significant numbers of people. Tamed becomes idle, wild as uncontrollable. Still, the cost is borne in this country, privately or publicly. What Barabus knows and what he conveys are as public and private as mixed education. Science to Mr. Jam goes nowhere more than SPAM. Physics is a subject that could be health. Maths is good because nobody else knows either and disownment can cultivate skill. Up Yours is off the third finger, poor Barabas can’t learn to count for sneezing Less you!
Less You complex becomes a useful tool for Caesar’s monstrously largely countless sheep. Caesar in modern times is Ceacescu’s Bless you like me to know me. His chapter isn’t meant to be personal. Not set to meet the glass slipper; only infamy on how the mass behaves at one frontier. E fits of right and left slash backs are enormously depressing as the median.
What happens to Barbarus is as super as subjection. Barbarus arrives to be persuaded to change ways of knows to share the how he squatters. Simply, he is sent home and leaves home. Where he goes is what he sees and he is not allowed to look behind in the sense of being mute, the cardinal rule is chocolate.
Barbarus is fixated by overrated temptations and uses force of habit to out do what can’t be gone through. Take up chocolate and dimness for snacks won’t better advertisment for sweeter truths. Many of the worst people have sweet tooth which permits them to underrate greed. It’s the option of complex avarice going on about puddings as naughty to fill days of keeping tidy, tidy is a Barbie doll. She is what Barbarus could to untie skins of plastic fit.
Barabus lets the side down, the wrap peel, with Wots that bit?
The best plastic surgeon
Yesterday could have been easy to pull of had the insistence to bodge and check the radio tune been abandoned. Slivers of bile on what’s at stake for picking at the bogey, the capital of Bogata. Wind ups are as gentle to madness as the pool of reflection. The feeling of conclusion sets jellies with cream. The situation about overdraft is for exclusion. Recovery complies to rulings of fortune. Negative equity suits the manager to press the buck and dine on hay, unrequited love.
Who am I verbosum.
So far who are you?
The music is on the mind as dolphins are bananas. Let’s be friends is a thief for good conversation. The friend returns the friend. Some return religion, accountancy, sharp reminders to see the lord. The TV is listening out of touch.
Wait is part of spot the arse, know to that and feel complacent. A rat says to a parrot for squeak. The hand says to the hand to point. The diary here is a trace of behaviour. Isn’t the sound that can delay the parrot a rat aboard boat. Saints say less than crafted bloats to lap in thorough chortles. Cackle is not satchel cheap for cockles, land the shore.
It may not be realistic to agree with a mediocre reference, when the place that was is passed off as a valued institution. It’s journalism without paper, but it’s stronger where it is for bothering. Informed choice is let them be. How it is to know and to know no is. Untoward goes away as buffalo sense.
Perpetual suns perpetual grass, bare and strewn, short and lush, luck long and rustled, content with being eaten, trodden. Public speaking is the art of they may take offense, so capital is to be made to defend the smell for what it is. There are bad drains, stunk to be blocked, drains that are bad that are had to the hat’s nose, methods of efficiency. It’s all talked about to be the gutter; ingenious little rhythms of keeping dry.
Overhead turns down from the sky when it has rooved and leaved and plocked and jittered, sobbed, sopped, mushed, wheedled, creviced, slunk, shed, kerplunked, sheeted, mist itself, treated, crooned to split, swooned to lip, clip, pat, plitter plat splat, tinkle periwinkle, urchin moss, seaweed, somehow lost. It goes on and sieve meets the comb for what is torn to wet when pigeon toes the stilt. Down and along the paddy whack foot. Down and along the flamenco of clear pinks to mud, a leg to sand. Don’t tell anyone I toed you sir, don’t spit a word, don’t cheep a bird. It cheeps because it cheeps, foot for a bargain, beak for a splay, tongue for a toe, but don’t they spit on forks? Up side down eats the levitation, palm to the table, turns up to catch.
the mouse rang up the clock the clock struck one the mouse ran down
A lobotomy is a denim jacket, a lemon, nothing to declare, love from
yours in faith because all the options have spaces
the new page begins with posting lost cow boys and thought it was over.
paxo stuffing, pesto sauce, a spot in the channel, sorry in the line of wee
urethra franklit, dingalingdong, fin flaps about the hot passage
allergic to stuffing is retribution
there’s a mum, just been escalating with two goofy sons.
guilt is embarrassing even to think of at that age
then its wiley, wiser, foolish, in love. playing, acting, push and shove.
got off at the stop that now.
The corner entertains every perversion on 42nd Street when the street is the way back to the street. A chihuahua
Extraditable, cynical, the man next door to the slippery pole of my conviction.
Acorn Antiques, the musical
Martin Amis has a move in theatre Haymarket, beside himself with rock bottom’s waif. It’s the fuzzy, raw version of Marlboro fags and red necked lace. It’s Keith in the field, checking synopsis. She’s off to the loo without paper towelled hands, gets back and befriends gay benchers with needy aplomb. It’s the second half of turn in the grate. Josie Lawrence winks like Kirsty MacColl. At the end, he nips off sharp just like the last time, for waif to plod after on heafty boots behind on the stairs to the lady in black velvet.
Oh, beg the author, beg the author’s maze upon instruction. It’s like watching telly tubbies curve compliments to the felt hill in hospital illness. Little Bo Peep knows she has sheep by the way she is dressed and to that extent.
Television’s clear view is like Martin Amis, guided, scripted and sung on the name. Bo Peep would like to look in. She’s a byegone to stereotype and yellow umbrellas, props, for somethings that she’s done. Blindness frustrates her a bit on once is lost but forever faithful. True to the score of patter-cake, she potters about in peaceful carnage. It’s telly on three, telly on four, picking up pieces of this and pieces of yore.
If only she would look up she would not be a rhyme. If only she could thrust a bit and coin the dime of her own sing song. There are choruses of children learning her verse, but she just stares with a frilly capped crook. ‘Darling, the show’s a marvel’ chorus mating doves in waistcoats pecking gold. Bo Peep claps back at the same place and pew, just a different year and show. She has pins and needles, she shows her crack, she begs to differ that solemn hands can whack.
Martin Amis is the ivory queen’s messenger, strain is a glance, beautifully delivered. Murder is tied by the calm of fruit pie. Romance is palatial to the groin, elegant food, even mince. It is the high order of buttering toast for Barbara Cartland. It is the absurdity of existing Bo Peep as a pin up mag, costumes, drag, many years go on and goon, the affair of knowing and not seeing. Drag sings the song parentally too, even fag in the hand. Name’s dice go about the page in sequels born from rage, longing and despair. Better adjectives are only called when they get in from the nursery.
Everyone is nursery, especially the queen. Chicken licken sets off to see and tell ‘the sky is falling down’. It’s central bait to what really entails a sprout a corn. The emphasis of bumping heads is kissing, overdosing, crashing, aching. Chicken licken is a blameless size, but age is booked, alarmed to prize. A smallest conflagration, a petty consummation then is a bowl of jelly, some angel delight. Warning bells of courtesy set minds to freight that jelly is as slippery, moose as nearly trickery. But to chicken licken, the sky is falling down. The stages of man from chick to hen to goose are cluck, to dog to bark, to cat to scratch, to horse the course, spiders in meeting match. Oh! the cynicism with a capital T. After this exclaim runs the course of a plane. What it is to you that un- believes is stranded to the self of floating a log.
The mild passport of escape is hot dogs at the garage.
Garage shut so a twenty four hour spring roll does, with dolomides and aqua libra. What does is not what is, in the mind of midnight snack. It thought, it went, it saw, it fetched a VISA return. Stuffing down is in the city, some at walking distance. Vine leaves aren’t exactly what they spurned, some o’ those and some o’ those surprises the bitterness. Kebab is junk, but that’s not me! So is the story of apostrophe. Edinburgh’s weather is not indoors like aqua libra’s colour is whisky, this is bury territory, opposite the hospital, that upstairs to through this window. The neighbour coughs from diaphram to mouth, a battlement window slit in front sides. She coughs in twos, like those unheard, today is breathing to where it wasn’t.
That’s the thing with breath, it follows, stops and starts. Not commanded but egged in breaking wind. Small flu chimneys for stoking up grate. Oh, ember do remember gullet to gull it, wind pipe to pan stripe, whistle to the task. The ears pop on high pitch and from canals their jacket fix, air and noise, air and noise.
Mrs toad lives in the Hebrides where it is very windy gale force time, sometimes zero index pine. It’s the trees that racket along with crashing waves. How the howl turns to mend the stays of winter. It’s a goose song, an elephant’s paw of tidings on the jet stream score. Exhaustive, invigorating, a thing called energy, harnessed inside by ribs and broccoli.
James watt flickers at 2.31 am. before 2.32 as minutes spend. What they breathe is in or out to creation. First breath is not a count down, but the rest are. The old count downs are servers to store, as old as their last in jugs of the rest.
Pass the water, moving house to house. Swallows in the eaves are building mud for flowing over it, sea anenome, sea anenome, swim little fishes from the grasp of a rock.
That’s about me, and that’s about me, the NME awards accept on my behalf.
Anger at the Lord ain’t justified, where it’s at. It’s the people of the Lord is where it’s at coz there ain’t no way to eat pastry than to share with friends. The big ‘ole dole queue at this expense is bounty. So when eating alone, the first thing to prevaricate is where thats gone. Chopping a red pepper, blending marigolds and oil ain’t the sort of drip dry that’s done for an ample dish. There are things to know, and mistakes to find them. That makes ‘em out of grasp, oh, Lording, sittin’ above Port Augustus, AKA is Mr Gloop. Pasta shells drop to show the panty line, and missed opportunity is just a bone reminder. Avoiding disappointment ignores the sensitive time, for it might be hurried to compensate. Fear of the truth and fear of the good ain’t the same thing, let the action be written in words.
For the most part, address is the word, where it lives and how it speaks. Y’all come over to my place has bought a resident throng that simply don’t live there. Monopoly just is visiting. Goodness is kept with the pride of being overdone. The goodness beyond reach is about as safe as it can manage. Garden keys are handed for snakes of temptation, and borders that meet them. To qualify the sliver quickly, foot is on the ball, shattering dreams or jam jars.
The sound is different, sweeping away, blinking to miss is noiseless to the loudness it surveys. Particles of sleeping dust corner to the eye, half past ten and the line is on the dry. There ain’t nothin’ busier than blinking, courage, cowardice, fighting, flirting.
Game to the time is waiting, wanted to win the running race is a winner, not a cheater. The race is won accurately on legs in starting positions. Sport outside the sorting lanes is what to beat for dinner. Little Jack Horner knows eggie mouse is but souffles for darlings and prefers plums, the egg is in the pastry, not that it shows.
An unrefined incident succours the advantage. The tract of speed can stay intact. Big getaways are from and towards the easy lays. Whether it can rest, the slope is challenged best.
Take the morning, lain in to the mutters of talking windows. All peaceful at dawn, with smatterings of catching sack. The early child burbles till lunch, then screams with discontent. The day increases complication, the way disrupts till bed. Student ups by lunch, all discoed from the dread. Broadening horizons match up the excitement. Pyramids of the mummy on the step of kiss a camel. The prospect is always there, for the scream to recommence. Small kids are deflector rays, inviting returns of good behaviour. This can be hard to believe in a tantrum, for that which is responsible.
Pain and pain to bear are serious inquisition. Somewhere is capacity defines individuality. Peter Sellers has a trained for optimum tormentor. Wild vagaries don’t square to be tamed. There is no shape in corridoors of passing power.
It is not known to carry the burden and to know. Ideally, the burden is the sooth. In the case of relieving the answer, the case is bolted, checked and digitally secure as someone else’s luggage in patrol that wonders on. The perspective is sentimental here, with boots locked in the case. The handle to either progression inflames imagination. Neither settled the paper is handled with dismay for greater impact.
Suppose the paper of the bark is worse than its growl. Too refined or unrefined, are wagers of the trees. The books of confiscation tell of confiscation. The mind about books is the hiss of invention. What goes is went and can’t be changed in standards of the print. Even newspaper learns the final edit. Stolen money is nearly stolen mummy. One ‘umm’ of can’t is hardly an able answer, what can it spell?
The Ring is in Japanese by Suzuki, Izu in September, one week to live. Eat an apple, watch an apple, inside and out, eruption, volcanoes, lid replacements. The centre is the core and may not be a round. Jaw bone, cheek bone, forehead. Bones that sit in the seat are all of them. V – ideo flat mates. East, west and T ‘V’ to forge the angular of line triangular, interceptions of the crooked eye. Not parallel to polaroid, through the falling rain, keeping abreast of over there. Eyes in the back of a head, 180 thighs all round 360. Knee caps. Eye balls, Rac ooners, seers that swallow fishermen. Parts and falling apart, wide eyed. Black and white photography before colour.
Facial expression wide mouthed, radiation. Speculation on the storm. Telephone hook. Getting back in the car, two spaces after a word. Meaning to you by inhabit. The box and the chest of drawers. Keeping pairs of socks. Murmuring, setting the goal of where to walk, speaking Japanese. Haunting knowledge of the unlearned. Keeping chain letters in doors. Engines running seat belts. Wells of reflection. Crow bar breaks the seal. Going down to fetch water. Bucket on a rope. Spiral and the wind. Emptying trough. Frozen over in the paddock. Lifting exhaustion. Man in the moon from the bottom of a well. Lifting the curse. Climbing through the TV. Privacy, wrinkles, the post box. Pony canyon is made of toffee.
It says Saturday’s child is fifteen miles. How grand.
When life fathoms your pitch, anything goes. Far less is the meaning when the meanings do more. A frog is bad for you, oh, but it’s a favourite thing. As a symbol, the frog is less slimy. As a croak, old men crack the better joke. As legs to eat, they are done in France, as places to sit, it is better to dance. Old fatso goes back to a favourite haunt; it’s one of huge dimension; London with nobs, only there is no stop to London, and Get out Free wasn’t stamped properly on the bottom. It only meant forwards necessitates backwards where it blithely trolls principle. The unprincipled frog learns to grow, without pumps and modern contraptions. He must frog it to the frog from the pole to start with. And that’s the baby help the baby. Some frogs last well into the sunset, frazzled and unprinced or essed from hops to walks. The leap spreads the gorge, the burn, the whole bun BLT with sesame. The leap is heroics, is the squirm for hamming up fun. There’s Kermit and Piggy all muppetty where frogs can be, but not in hanging around.
Kermy and Piggit have split up, for trying to be like Mit and Iggy but getting the message wrong. Their deserve is to think backwards, walk into things, less fantastic. Instructions outback are bombs and guns, tons and roads, cactuses and caucuses. Hello to secret remains, forgotten and ill winds. The actual problem is never clearly discussed, only your place or mine? Fanny is the greatest heroine for Bill and John; she learns to play late and early. Follow that bag, that cab, that mag, that tag and safety holds a stolen prize. Body language in public spaces, private thoughts and limb disgraces. Spiders legs are curby grips, nails, spiders legs and imaginative greecian creatures. Along comes Nescafe for being untidy. Large reminders affect the small modification, pretending not to make as notice would be fake, as would no notice and take. Planting trees goes by the year, and what was is more or less than last; currently less, providing the task. Doubt goes Guns Ahead for the benefit all round. Grog is a boy. Frog is a girl. The ones with curls can’t stand up and real girls and boys are cautious as pups.
Retrospectively, hell hath no fury. Heat is the moment of sweating it big. Brains ooze on a couch from ten years ago when Shirley left. There was a point five years ago when cricket went to bed. The locks shut down and saw to the task of why she left in a horrible mask. It was the strain of the neighbourhood, boo hood the dog, or the son or whichever one. It wasn’t Shirley and it wasn’t the dog. It was Prince frogged Carmichael, telling the slog. Telling had attracted him to Shirley and she both surveyed, in the early stages what the story on release did to where it went. But there was a patch of cruelty on the rounded point which scored more for fetch back than keeping the sack. Carmichael thought it best for Shirley if the gates remained locked. This dug at Shirley, darning web knots. Shirley’s knots were as good as any bolt, but Carmichael nagged and brains slid the ooze.
The old woman was a terrible worry, but no longer. Placid tells menace there’s more fire to furnace. Attractive actors, symbols, protractors. Follow a game of a trip down a step. ‘No ‘shall be grown up, and ‘Didn’t’ likes ‘Really?’ to ripen adventure. The experience, the diversion, the absconsion, the desertion add diversion, absconsion, diversion to the way that doesn’t smile. North London is terribly good at teaching.
West London is terribly good at preaching goose to the chase of upset. Nothing feeling and kicking ass are jolly good balls of trash. The burper sherpa even makes ground from the demeanor, and this is a wretched state of Pass. Sulk defends proper literature in the tenure of character. It is difficult to sustain the sulk without explaination. There may not be another opportunity says pain again. The influence of dead inspiration is in the attic, and all that time of teen said flowers was the good book of inversion. Revel and relish the fiction where screams await the wrong decibel.
Slightly off chord is a treacherous turd. And this is onwards where the book hits fix wilder than the drug of diss. Of course the drug is a bad edge, but there is one. Although what doesn’t happen does, it is understood. Beryll writes a book called Georgy but it’s the wrong name. Walking around is the wrong coloured cotton. It eventually goes immune. Like keeping scratch privacy on the front bench of toon. So much time to shovel an old disguise. Decisions to scrape a living are not intended. Condensed milk is an odd spread.
It’s the slow catching on that enlivens distaste. Mosquitoes learning to feast by day, the encroachment of season, dissolvable house is warming. Everything that could is did to egg separate. Cleavers on this and scraps of that. Wander childer where are the bogs, wander slowly and never mind the logs. No assertion alone, no assertion grown. The clipped weed is weary to tread. Half is this intention, half is understood. That is data protection, that is gowning Hood.
Epicentre understands the worst command in good. Well errupted, well applauded, well done, well done. Scouting works out How often the tank is cleaned and optimums depend. Splinters reward mistakes as something. Top skin deep is a nice relief. Edit Undo for Somethingorother John Claude Van Dam.
I did that, I did, I crib for the did like a biting horse cribs the like of sucking wood. People about me that are as blind within to the places I may go. The defender and the grim are desperately tame. No fun is near at the end of a game? Called is Monopoly to the bored and the rich. Some dice are pairs, others are the throw. Wasting time has to be done blindly as it serves. Serve the patience of argument. That is the fact.
What is dim is caustic toughness. What is bright is angel delight. What is excalibur to Arthur and George is Arthur should know and George is a fool by name. Handsome at least is a throwback on an illicit herd. Pro Tools meant of the day are of the night lit electric moon. What is shies for nothing happens to account the lustre skin.
Sympathy is lost where disgust is loose. Only that it remain beneath the fold jumbish to sale as giveaways do. T here comes a pitiful trust, and it is known with thanks to candour. Be as it does, the sherpa tries wheres not wanted, thanking the whip round points on unfinished. Some grains to find home’s young is empty; swallowed to the host of dementia farther offs the plot. To Sherpa, its the drop to carry and leave the break.
The arrogance of decline, no, non, not to let you go. How is accord to the glory, slip shines aginst the track. Downwards is a memory lying on the hag of a peat bog. Honey, I don’t care if the pope is your pop or not. Where you stand is how was planned, and tread is in the bowl. Hollow to the channel is glad to stand a pole.
The positive gloom of being tried, is as simple as the bus ride. Comparing how to ride is as simple as left to right. Traffic office, traffic honest. Chalk and Cheese to Chiswick. It starts out with beautiful hair.
You may not see until you see, you see.
Solace is shown silence, in the optic sense. Chivalrous compliments risk the crossroads, as tasters of where the tread would, were it diffident. Offence is always taken, like the pound of mince, cook gets heating. The day knows where it goes, faithful to last years’ rehearsal. If there was a point to all of this it would not have been done. The laying out so faithfully swarms in clouds of bees, let them hive, let them summer, mind the head.
The brutish fort about deed persuasion is that goes with that. Here nothing matches but incendiary flicker, the gas works of drink in liquor, the by product of diversion, consumed by the day of sort. Saturday for the block plunges a spring, takes a lovely brush and flips along death as the by product of passing in the park, continuing round, fearful of the truth that it makes a sound. Eyore is the donkey. The park makes a fuss. Donkey rides and fun for the passport that ails.
Whatever has been said in the past makes dishes of consequence. Bread and wine drink all the boys and girls at their coming of age. Ha says the sweetness is unfair, that PJP is too well fed. As if today were any better than another for pronouncing grim exaction. First wait till the colour fades, strangle the neck exfoliant of phase. The man has dandruff from the guards of age and he is calling proof with a document charge. Deep settlement has a surface that provides grass to weep. Top soil churns the plough, except for burial and excavation.
There is rather noticeably no thumb for the pearl. Who can understand a fingerprint? Policemen sow theirs at gradient. Sieves for the large percentage on the reflex of action. It is true that at a hundred miles, the hour is a different glass. There they are, on the verge, picking litter or wild flowers; themselves or their sheds. The great highway of conscription learns for indication. Faces tell a lot, but the distinct mystery of colluding to plot is generally not Gung Ho.
From this delivery, Feature is out of bounds. It is an actual place, like the poem of ageing. Your cheek is distinctly like an indescreet barn that yawns. Your place is to go there, just for holidays and special occasions. Welcomes to and fro by that which is ordained. The sentence is ordained by suggestion, and equation wins a selection. Mute sits aboard spite that other things are perks to contingent plans of afternoons. It is unfortunate and neck breaking to hold the gift of participation. Nothing is feasible to holding the cow. It must be mad, sad or bad to know unless it has undergone a lot of training.
Cough, move over rolls over, falls out, bumps his head and shouts. ‘Please remember to tie a knot in your pyjamas, single beds are only made for 1-10 karmoun’. The manger is lowly, and its the best plan about hay there ever was.
The exodus generally assumes life before belonging. The exodus pertains defeat in guilt. For who they are they have no lives. For who they were they are disguise. It’s only ten miles by the flow. A girl of the dark passsenger eyes from the back seat, eyes the sky. The shopping trip worries her parents. The steal is as close at hand to a book in palm. The car dives, and there’s the great ambiguity at the edge of the road. Bottle top is spent because of curious Trent. Why won’t the lift work, ring the government! They don’t serve tea in church, though disgrace is hotter with bothering mirth. Only tasty things. A snack on return is yesterday’s slice. Someone announces ‘Oh, yes you had one, but look what you did with it!’ ‘I’m afraid it’s all gone, like the people in the shop, the stop and the tone.’ Any benefit of last rights is an arrogant construe of reasons to planets. ‘There are no stairs in space’, the girl applies with a glass look in place. Calling to spirit commands passes hand to foot, conjectures out of touch with today’s fads and fashions. Untimely is mislaid. Doggie buries the bone and says here, woofie woofie, where’s my bone? It’s been moved out of smell and out of sight and the whole town is relieved that they don’t live next door to a terrible person. The whole town that doesn’t share responsibility, in the sense of living next door. For the placement of dog to search interestingly, the airport has Alsatians and Scruffs for that.
The dog squad may want to prey on that they come upon, but hanging about is hardly good to shout. Wavering sound vibrations are full of information. The room of a box is a chord in a throat.
It is not tangible to have the pope for dinner.
Big is the pawn of a man of the book. Big is the conversation. Huge and collossal and pretty unbelievable. Self destructive turns are about what was explained one afternoon about dropping the paper clip, and how it goodbyed a golden hello. The post box of fondant action. The beg, the poise, the stoop. Not feeling is good enough for vacuum. Committal is heresy where it plays a long prude. The onerous task of keeping proportion is about friendship.
For what you have done you may not return.
There is nothing forward here to encrypt selection.
At this point, the sluttishness of compliment must be drowned on base. The Kensington stall of the darkest trace. And how the bus ferries past with mighty Oh’s and Wells and Mighties; achievements on the daisy chain being highest on the cutting bone. For what is held against is not leagued nor chartered. Mys and wells of survival do not proceed the Oxford press. It’s more Stephen King in the land of hardware. Breast a glass jug and thigh a pinafore.
Therefore, there is no god but PJP’s pajamas.
The proof of removal and extraction confounds St. Thomas, who names his children Master Thomases and congratulates. They find this very amusing at the scribe’s hand who knows no more about them. The jokes are left out, for filling between the lines to carry on with absurdly dull instructions. Where’s the manual?
Oatsosimple, coconut milk, cranberry drink, raspberries, blueberries, salmon fillet, org bananas, organic lemons, org broccoli, crispy leaf slad, org soft citrus, JS Aubergine makes 22.01 and forty four earns points. Back and get the pope would involve two locked doors and a sense of quasi deliberation. Man with the answer is in the supermarket. No comment, the reward scheme is oddly about spending.
Death is a confusing pretence to those that cry. The grief is outward bound to what surveys an empty place. The memory of what goes is the very last door to close. The day without is as portion to scout. Subtraction of learning, like walk with a rope, drip, not sip. Porridge is glue in your own home. The usefulness of one person to another is like getting off with things that aren’t paid for. Working at the good is just as doubt ful. Title over description is how the kings and the big people cope with size. Lord’s mercy is constriction made venerable to the open strain. It is not shouldered to enter the court of same. The own mercy to the nude nods the self generator to dress in the morning.
It is rude to turn down a holy order’s invitation and by definition it is hung.
Steeple to the flat sands of obstinence. The who helly of see whey they’re out the way. The spot off one for a pot of their drum. Baronial barrels of meals on the wheels of speeding by. Knowing and the closing are well met to conflict and exchange the difference.
Moan, groan wind and drop, spec and idle mop.
They seek him here, they seek him there, those frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven, or is he in hell that damned elusive pimpernel?
If a rhyme rhymes, it makes a poem.
Monopoly and straying, keeping a ground confession.
In relation to Catholicism, there is deepest disgust, and writhing takes on the bitter form. The half moon cafe is two slices of bacon too much. This morning everyone wants to know why you could not see further than the end of your nose.