. Just say, C h e e s e - to study diseases go live in the swamp - Once upon a time, so the story goes on a dark and stormy night our ragged-trousered Ruckman was set on course for a fight snag was the wind blew out the lantern down the long and lonely street, whereupon our poor fellow and a young lady he intended to meet strayed from the tame and well-rounded typical liaison and flawed detective plot for dignity, a steady job, and appeals for Human Rights - shelter and shield story - P I L G R I M S P R O G R E S S .
. dutiful foggy bottom nomenklatura cut taxes for the apparatchik cut provisions for the peasantry first among equals . .
. I seldom expect much since waiting on public transport only to find a peckish picket line and a few fiery tyres as an appropriate exchange in the gulch of good and evil Wot Went Before The Word Wend Alas, an inevitable off-the-grid parable, a native no doubt: Never argue with a dowager in charge of her cubs — proceed with soft cushions and permit a pioneer to sew unflinching prosody over the muck on the wall. A kind of bustling subsidy or honey-hole of solidarity — This also begs a token pleasantry, given the monotony of urban spaces and the popularity of gaslighting fiery types with shallow artificial pools and ladies clad in bogus white frocks. A lauded practice found in tight trailer spaces when the bail bond cometh overdue or the pool of moonshine looks a little despicable to ethereal trailblazers set for novel ways with wicked Canadian livestock and other finger-licking comforts Wot Other Highways & Loose Washes Love comes along in layers and lilac rinses, scratches and spurs Warm and cold contrasts, masculine boldness, feminine pluck Am I one who perceives neutrality without borders, bends, and sees furniture without quirks, dust-free graphic rooms peppered with the deeds of Hamlet and the misunderstood I begar short and call on the unexpected. Insane ideas that take no more than nothing for granted in an unfathomable riddle of ink spots, empty spaces and dotty measures. And I know not why—QED Wot Art Makes Little Sense At All Masterpieces keep us guessing. Miracles happen—pay is lousy, so best not to pretend otherwise from any high Rood loft. Where it ever such a nightMice would be out playingFiery cocks doodle-croakingI half-dead with covetousnessSuch simple twilight passages— 'tis pastime to feed the headSleepyhead! x
