indulgent reproofs. or maybe some kind of swatching cloth. eh. like the hum of a bumblebee or two, stinging the temple with its sticky, yes. and all the honey goes kerfluff. in the doorway there are two straws or maybe a camel with two humps and the same could be said for testimonials, too, or maybe.
under or beneath the rug there are some bugs, so cute, so cuddly, with their six little legs waving and their scapulars and their thoraxes and all the stingrays or i mean antennae or some other bugridden dooddad. soft, that catchy bug won?t like yer impudent stare! er.
fulminating brews, blast the top off the brain burrow, climbing inside there, what?s to find? a dazzling array of delgados or frusty chimney barristers? or maybe there?s only some kind of froth, the remains of some high tide that came through once, depositing the silty mounds of seaweed and tentacular splendor. there?s that suspiciously disordered stingray smell (i mean fishy) making the head spin or maybe those nostrilos.
there are some kinds of mattering which don?t seem to matter much. and some other matterings which though smattering matter much more than other matters. mad hatters? or maybe they?re only illusory matters that matter to us and not real matters at all? what time is it, anyway? who?s late these days, with these atomic clocks reeling out their decimating time? where?s the sun in thar? sometimes you eat the bar?
verdant sundried? or i meant to say sunrises. what time is that anyway?