A poem of sorts: The Vastness of Fast
Paragraph I: The Tapering
Six of us tapered across fresh flakey white sun-basted bayonette scars. I with my floor-length scatter charged an icy grain, seep deep withinto my milky masterpeice; for I carved it on a whim in the South of Luxury. But you never sat and tasted it, did you? What of which way did you didn't do it without towering tapering caper come? A tale so flat and round you'll think it a tale of another's tapering, but nay, alas and a lock-kneed bow-legger, it is a doing deed of a tapering paper top-heavy agape at the nape of the neck of another. That other is no other than that of which I seek to speak of, being what which is me. I am the wanderer that you sneek around. I am the bearer of my bleak breadth and the width of a whisper. My spirits aren't quelled by my bother of a craving. And anyhow, I don't see why they should be.
Paragraph II: Neck of the Ages
With a leakness of pores gaping opening bowling Saturday at the lanes, I can only hope to be in your peg-book. I can open it up and take a look tiggering claw page 20. Shake and quagmire skunk pits of pitiless penduling back and twain on my slippery slivered skivvies, I spy theivery written in the absence of my neck. And it's exactly that neck that will tell you.
Paragraph III: Dirt
Dirt.
Paragraph IV: The Vastness of Fast
The Vastness! O-cursed the Vastness of Fast! How super-slick speed feeds the widening, needening bleakestry that is its practice to be, that vastness is. And the sickening split throat thud that is its neighbor, twitching in the waiting waters, wading to the shore to sit sticky in your absolution. Yet the tapering come. Yet come to this, none the less again, capering taper paper tiger come home. Home to your waiting judgement at the hands of idiots. Tell them of the Vastness of Fast and of hands clasped around hands around -o- unglowing going fast Vastness. What flatness attains vast beat belly-red in the meaty medley varsity. Those fleety fellows, stout and bold, never told of such velocity black flames the plumage. And then, those what wouldn't, never would.
Paragraph V: The Fifth One
Some bugs on a weekend. Something is whacking in the back yard and it isn't the weeds, tumble barrelfall, all of nothing is lacking. Out and over the under where the rain brought the hump back. It's got a crack in the saddle once before out over the war waves what's more to be done than be not. But it seemed as though a brief flash in the gutter. It's tipped its flask and you asked for it, ya gatta wear it. It's only last season.
Paragrah VI : A Startled Armadillo
"Waste not the hand!" she proposed with a bit of it hanging from between her tooth. Drinking from the chandelier, I had to make up my mind. So I slunk off well from off from under bad formed and brow furrowed. It wasn't too much left to do today, just grunted. As well I suppose no purpose or portent intently waiting by the knotty pine to kindly bundle kindle. And yet so true to be, as being yet has yet been, has truth been true. And so, verily, yes! "Waste not the hand" I cry as well!! For my own is plenty in this freakish faade. Only brevity levels heads up, levity builds bread. But what other over this pillowbox of a cavity gives a damn about it's dead. It'd be a shame to move him.
Paragraph I: The Tapering
Six of us tapered across fresh flakey white sun-basted bayonette scars. I with my floor-length scatter charged an icy grain, seep deep withinto my milky masterpeice; for I carved it on a whim in the South of Luxury. But you never sat and tasted it, did you? What of which way did you didn't do it without towering tapering caper come? A tale so flat and round you'll think it a tale of another's tapering, but nay, alas and a lock-kneed bow-legger, it is a doing deed of a tapering paper top-heavy agape at the nape of the neck of another. That other is no other than that of which I seek to speak of, being what which is me. I am the wanderer that you sneek around. I am the bearer of my bleak breadth and the width of a whisper. My spirits aren't quelled by my bother of a craving. And anyhow, I don't see why they should be.
Paragraph II: Neck of the Ages
With a leakness of pores gaping opening bowling Saturday at the lanes, I can only hope to be in your peg-book. I can open it up and take a look tiggering claw page 20. Shake and quagmire skunk pits of pitiless penduling back and twain on my slippery slivered skivvies, I spy theivery written in the absence of my neck. And it's exactly that neck that will tell you.
Paragraph III: Dirt
Dirt.
Paragraph IV: The Vastness of Fast
The Vastness! O-cursed the Vastness of Fast! How super-slick speed feeds the widening, needening bleakestry that is its practice to be, that vastness is. And the sickening split throat thud that is its neighbor, twitching in the waiting waters, wading to the shore to sit sticky in your absolution. Yet the tapering come. Yet come to this, none the less again, capering taper paper tiger come home. Home to your waiting judgement at the hands of idiots. Tell them of the Vastness of Fast and of hands clasped around hands around -o- unglowing going fast Vastness. What flatness attains vast beat belly-red in the meaty medley varsity. Those fleety fellows, stout and bold, never told of such velocity black flames the plumage. And then, those what wouldn't, never would.
Paragraph V: The Fifth One
Some bugs on a weekend. Something is whacking in the back yard and it isn't the weeds, tumble barrelfall, all of nothing is lacking. Out and over the under where the rain brought the hump back. It's got a crack in the saddle once before out over the war waves what's more to be done than be not. But it seemed as though a brief flash in the gutter. It's tipped its flask and you asked for it, ya gatta wear it. It's only last season.
Paragrah VI : A Startled Armadillo
"Waste not the hand!" she proposed with a bit of it hanging from between her tooth. Drinking from the chandelier, I had to make up my mind. So I slunk off well from off from under bad formed and brow furrowed. It wasn't too much left to do today, just grunted. As well I suppose no purpose or portent intently waiting by the knotty pine to kindly bundle kindle. And yet so true to be, as being yet has yet been, has truth been true. And so, verily, yes! "Waste not the hand" I cry as well!! For my own is plenty in this freakish faade. Only brevity levels heads up, levity builds bread. But what other over this pillowbox of a cavity gives a damn about it's dead. It'd be a shame to move him.
Your puppets are fucking brilliant by the way.