Monday, August 15, 2011

cymbal man with flat feet

Sword-billed Hummingbirds for sale. Pricey. I’d rather buy a vending machine filled with parasols and plastic rings. Curtis. Jamal. Could I get an usher in here to fill out my blank spaces? That’s all. Boon. Vance. Let’s get a double move-on on it. Federal law requires these things, you know? Give that remote control a whack on its back. Go ahead, like you’re burping the damn thing. That’s it. Easy now. Don’t want to thrash the vile contraption so it won’t work like it used to. Come on, Krissy, get the kinks out. Let’s take the garbage out now while we can. Rather have a smudge here than a smudge later, you know? Forward. Progress. Intelligent go-ahead runs at authority. Yes. We do what we can, and maybe what we thought we couldn’t. Level the heads. Vast. I mean, really? I’m gunning for an out, likely enough where there’s no hope of a gun or a hard-to-swallow theory. Stop. I’m going to ruin this. Evelyn. Greta. Sammy. Run or get ready. The bear robot’s making martinis. Untie the soldier’s shoes. Wash. My habits are becoming nasty. Be groomed. Be kind. Be hale and graced with filling. Stuffing. Other wah-wah yelps. Daggers I might hurl at walls. Vroom. Bill. Oran. Vanessa. Chad. Remember, what we’ve got here is a victory over communication. An opuscule for sale. All of my works for some doll’s shiny button eye. The rigors of motion stopping in for business. Kurt. Wilma. Paddington. Over here. I’m looking at you. Now, let’s stick around. Let’s. Hush up, Kermit. I’m not playing with any of you anymore. Klaus. Spare me a nickel? Brenda. Mama. Vigo? Pat my back. I’m making it up. Never mind what I’m saying. It’s what you’re hearing. Clear space. X out the needy. Everything you want becomes what you need. Morgan. Sherry. Dress your kids in lavender. I’m making myself up. Henry? Get me a rough cut. It’s a steal. Barnaby. Larissa. Mess up my hair. I’m in the butcher’s union for life. Always scrambling marinara into the clouds. Roll. Stay unfit. I’m plussed just so you can be minus. Clear the ends of my zone. It’s Billy. He’s in the game for life. You have no idea what I could accomplish in pants like this. Loop or dissect. Let’s make a decision. Holly! Get on it. I want a fresh-out-of-the-dryer towel, pronto. Stop being a waste of space. Hubert! Get the lead in. Arf. Arf. Goobers are plopping all around. It’s me. Alaska’s out of Ranch dressing. Either that or they’ve hidden it all in the basement. Cash out. All in. Let’s get a bird’s-eye view. Let’s bench press paperbacks. Don’t go for it. Alice. I’m mistaken. Only it’s now that we deal in artificial artifacts of newness. Over all the Suzies of whatever Lionel ignored. Dreams time talk by the strongest divisible decibel. Let’s make paper out of airplanes. My mercy machine’s on empty. Gloria! And damn you, Herman! Or maybe that’s just you, Wyatt. Could revenge be a dish best never served? I’m my own evil twin. Last month griping was becoming my favorite hobby. Now? Now nothing’s new. Angels have grown small. Victor. My, my, my, my. I’m stolid in my regards to what you disassociate from. Attacked by two-headed tulips. I eat all of my buttered bread upside down. Cast me as a roll player. Topple dimness. Return my soul to sender. Address never to be known. Jeremy. Susan. Wesley. I am leaving. I am nothing but a backache waiting to happen. I’m shunning sunshine. Courtney. Don’t yank your hair out over it. Penelope. Clyde. Let’s cut this shit in. A bustling dimension. A dancing asterisk. Devon? I’m closed most mornings. Farewell to our grenade days. A cooper’s been cross-country skiing past here lately. Figures. My barrels are all chested. The undiscoverable world of hairnet fishing is finally off my mind. Frederica. Bob. Hester. Bid a bit to go clear into that heap of crushed soda cans. We are sensible. Varnish the rats with mean streaks. Veronica. Babushka. Tell the time! Vince. Ned. Pamela. Sleep sincerely in fields of crumbled muffins. Curtis. That’s the way to stop on a penny. There are no shoes to tell my story like these shoes tell it. Mary. Alan. Icarus. Vanish this landscape into thick water. It’s lately that men sewer for likely stories. Depends on what you’ll never mean to be. Gregory. All credentials accepted. The torturous and painfully cruel history of us disrupts the normal activity of our lives. Back by nightfall. Miloš. Victor. I have the rugged, worn, scratchy face of an old criminal. Don’t be pristine. Nothing’s a harder tic to banish. Astrid. At last. We seem to have reached a disagreement. Carousel the deviants. I’m all for spotting land. Bridgette. Mairead. Boris. And you, Timmy. Burn the piano to keep us warm. Don’t be too serious with your food. Plan to never attack. The bells are all blue around these harbors. Lois. Source me. Look it up and down. I’m finding it out this side or in the other. Late is to run back. Michael. Gina. Xavier. To whom it does not concern. Look dull. Bob. Groom before you preen. It’s not that I don’t like water. I just hate when it falls. Allan. It’s going around. It’s the latest way to say goodbye. It’s lipstick on a straw. Polly. They’re before you. Question the door. Don’t barf after tea. Get after those slippers. Marie. Don’t be early. I’m operating on disconnected phones. Don’t miss the sights. And let’s challenge the holding capacity of cylinders of ethanol. Be rushed. Solfeggio me until the farmhands rid the barn of the tiniest bales of hay in the world. Stu. Doc. Chick. Rest in war. I’m bashed by laziness. Zip away. No. On fourth thought we’ll save it for recess. I am energy divided by the sum of motivation. Enrico. Jerry. Gain hair. Create unimportant benefits for freshly dead beneficiaries. Hawaii is drifting. I have seen the sea’s dominion over creeps let go jailers to swim free. I have known obstacles such as brass hooligans and torch-bearing bandicoots flaring the dark like radioactive jewels. I have matched the sun with stares. Winifred. Turn off the solar panels. I’m shimmering to death. Caspering along as we were it was only a matter of immaterial resources shrinking to a diminished popped bulb in a smoky TV. Orson. You are less than well. Fight your cards wrong. Quiz the stumped. Pigtail cranky ruffians until their skin screams for honeysuckle and white toast. Benjie. Heloise. Read letters by moonlight. I am squatting short. I am stuffed empty. Furbish my heavy-metal renditions of Brahms’ sonatas until they dully shine more than waxed-paper leaves. Heracles. Mandy. Let’s make ice out of creamlessness. Nobody’s old anymore. La lured dee to the dah until doe rayed me. Nachos for the plebeians. Amen to the alignment of curfew with yawns. Vladimir. Don’t label me eristic. I’m mostly more artisan than bricklayer. Next stop’s busy-as-potential. Francis. Step off it. Dang if I’ll be blasted. Want to serve me crashes while I deliver cars to all the girls next door? Sheena. Get me some potential. Don’t lose it in a dazey blunder over cold spaghetti. Okay? No more sprawling blight. It’s gotten so that garbage dumps have got their own zip codes now. Pink drowning the depths of gray. Pinstripe the opposition. Put ‘em in rags of rage. I’m often lumped in with radio listeners and pinochle champions. Earl. Etta. Byron. Over my live mind. Fans of very little put up a fight. Tell them all that I’m in the stars but I’m gazing towards the gutter.