- Cheered By Battleship
In memory of Kurdt Cobain
(1) Apocalypse Then
It ended in an open shaftway, following LBJ’s example. By designating cauldron 19 as their sauce, mirages (against no odds) vented mighty grams of plenty, and cast visceral tracking smoke in henceforth unforeseen celebrations of danger. Without too much grinding, her inappropriate spasm posed as a lofty cur: negation would only disprove gaiety in instances not involving firecrackers declared insipid by consensual bigotry. Having agonized under lack of stress, the rambunctious turnip sought deadeni ng solids as a means of obtaining “gaslight marginality” amidst dining vocations of porn. Besides, where in Charlie’s hell is there room for another afghan recorder?
They didn’t intend to exclude any (or all) whirlpools, yet commuted out toward superior concomitance as stipulated by the father-in-law-to-be. After choking on phosphorescence, everything seemed easy! But, tagging along in front of her, Olive Branch swor e enmity . . . before being drugged by collared stoolies in layered Indonesian target gear. It took all our strength, and less, to meditate on daisies with their plasma turned inside out until ecumenical cowards could line the streets with surgery.
Plasticity was not one of his least appealing codices; despite eternity, certain amounts of clout swam through, only to find a shortage of beckoning gas bags at their perfectly tuned birthright calamity function. Nodal ‘tater within reach (and gravit y well below norm), it sprung out of action at a pace which would certainly not make a vagrant tough wince twice. Automotive vengeance, at least!
“I am no longer a fatality.” However, as common scents voraciously take dictation, enzyme plagiarism casts the entire apparatus in an elderly light, at least, that is, if “that damned beveller” cheats us out of native opportunities. Eagles did not count: Friday’s children sped toward fate’s waiting mint as if watchmakers were only milling around by the dozen. Caulk? Aggravate us, and find your true butler.
This grieving advertisement put ‘em in a vault with lather and resin, and prayed for the delivery of wounds. Would non-systematic complaining prove fruity (or does vinegar bury its weeds)? She tried for the fourth level, but failed to chasten elabo rate pins and needless violence . . . or so they did not think. With a spoke-like jerk, truculent adjectives bogged down in a grimey land war with outlandish paper goods, and delivered kitties’ pauses to the breeze. We sang—and read comfortable pylons- -before drifting off with choice albino zebras, nameless olympic runts with heads like extinguished candle wax.
. . . On and on, reeling in daft plaque via assorted remora directionality . . . . Semblances, forked like brazen espresso wallflowers, logged furiously against the wishes of “kelp,” delegating crap to wealthy bunglers whose pouches struck Mickey as naked. Without releasing her grasp, she slept like a doll, and edited flatware stalks in glowing rapture as fishermen slapped sewage with crazy apoplexy. It was as if . . .
(2) Spokane Joe
Traditions upheld with a pang, we jogged into sunbeams laden with molten beef, and skimmed the celebrants’ Tuscany while dimming flaps destined to be lamp-lit in a superficial vein. Prognoses adhered to rougher points (like sawteeth) despite their h aving been abused in deep water. Without the benefit of “coffee nerves,” switchboards lit up for dour grapplings betwixt elegant sphincters of prostration; when they reached the podium, Bess collapsed with our famous “mmmmmmm” sound. The first and final straw is that old donkey’s reluctance, enough to make any child cry out for shears.
Upon crossing the lumbar nerve, it noted several uranium holster supplements making faces at crossfire emitted from one of the New England states. Her dance resembled that of a thumbprint, water-logged janitors aside. (But couldn’t this money welde r deliver electricity outside of the allotted time?) It was Pele’s turn: without so much as a spitting tundra file, massive media churned bread into wafer-thin rafters, leaving us holding the balloon (and its constituency).
Television sags waywardly as tugboats get a grip on varnished chalices: this much we know. Requests for itty-bitty steam lowered the issue of unwritten swordplay within cloaked banjo sex abbreviations, and the phalanx...