gosh, that’s the kind of flaring distaff that makes me wince in time to the gutless wunderbahr.
ya, it seems, don’t ya, that once in a while the old fractured dispensary just keeps wallowing on in deep deep dudgeon.
crisp like fritters on an arctic day (and where have they all gone, anyway? and where will the penguins live? maybe fridgerators) or galleons on a sea of custard.
gripping lives of emperors and cold-cocked curmudgeons. everone wants to be the next pliny or tacitus. what’ll we all be reading in 10,20,30 years, anyhow? will we even be squeezing our eyes at anything at all? or will it all fwoosh right inside our heads?
me, i’m not into the idea of pop-up ads inside my head. that’d be dooper unkeen.
the hideabeds gone all squichy. and the gorgon’s got her eye on some kind of spleen ticking away in the morter boat. all the years of tears and guess who’s feeling like alice-drownd-in-tears? who acres the old feelings anymore? who tills the kindly? who reaps the dark cash machine? is there a death-of-atms? a dearth of atms?
gaspar the onion-grinder just keeps whistling in the ears. “whss whss whss” he goes. and we’re all sobby because of all that onionjuice everywhere.