Hush sshwept clean fresh brush aside cum summit stalks— made history well history; how phew light years tearswell up as nowcently· crookery nook handshook up a well bent gee gnome
Lamasery shrub gourds fetch mad tricorn branchlines con left blue eye, sprink cosmetico silver outliner pindrip, touch jet black jack skellington taboo; soul rescued rondo fallen tree gnome
Pong from gnome splat leafy tartarus; greebo grunt hoed slug path smudge clingy soddoss ape yuck; tory uppy calendula snakesteam gorgons seep pale lightless green as kidsnot jest plane gnome
herding east on sum yums shunset; big black birdiess sweep up behind the trapeze awe soma kinda flushdump rafter gardenspoiler done up; enacted twilight morning cum torpor gnome
twixt vexed cringes syringes and plasma money jabs pimple oohs and ah-ahsoles. Dreamboaterer droopy wily doldrum torp grooms up day wit awe struck long lost cod almighty gnome
The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends
Times like this began with Field Marshal Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill with the clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi baying with piercing snake eyes
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to he adjutant steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters lounge.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming uphis way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s Day’, said Doggerel Dom in matching gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irony that littered the sidewalks of Oblivion.
‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for March & see if their booked out for The Ides’, said Bonzo to Gnasher, who never questioned hors d’hoeuvres on Main Street.
Simultaneously elsewhere times they were changing too. Perhaps Slow-Slow-Quick-Quick-Slow was the way of it after all conceded Louis the Song & Dance…
If evidence were necessary the characters froze halfway through what they were doing next and the room filled with a still putrid neutral silence, which you must find uneery or refute. Indeed the rumpus next door in the greenhouse made it all but impossible to focus at all. Our friends remained unmoved showing no a flicker of mere awareness.
Time it seemed was indeed up. Keys echoed in the corridor. They had a life of their own as well to live, you know.
Dignam reminded me in a roundabout way about the awfulmess that lies hidden beneath frozen graveyards, through with fingering his square jawed, jowly lopsided mug. I froze.
The sheer scale of human misery is as incomprehensible as the time spade continuum and defies common sense data and picture theories of life inside. I shiver mindful of the gap
Fussgonheim read the legend