''e's interesting and has good moves, long work

my Ode to robbyn Barble and violet sheets

Posted in Uncategorized by tetradugenica on July 14, 2010

what I did this summer

The baby carriage arrows bumpily and restlessly down the push crib line. The dyke is cooking thin pious hens, The fetus orders anyone woman around to hear its cries. ever restless and bubble eyes aglaze.

The detour from peril on magpie back, The echo of dykes scouting the type of racers! The pig arrow is the densest car then? Consecrated shore brairds pop through the cracks on the course. The rope contains our orders, knotted.

I hear the blow of a restless horn. My dossier  contains the necessary documentation and items du blackmail to get  my shore taiga consecrated.

The value of my holy land allows our crew to gouge the arena. We  spend half determining the peril of hikers spotting our general’s rococo country home. We  have the mesial branch of a popular path condemned.

The jackdaw with the ridiculously oversharp beak punctures a truck carrying a solution of mastic to secure restless mulberry trees to the bare mountainside. I had abandoned my bird killing station to make a labial request. My dyke partner had sex with me while I sat in a chair. “Like a dildo but full of blood and spongy tissure rather than a sacred polymer.” How kind of you, how kind of you! What kind are you? From an asian country?  From an Asian- Country?  Leave me alone.” I pouted, unsatisfied.

The jackdaw pecks on the horn of the Time Bull to expose  an area  decorated with scrollwork  representing clocks, watches, timepieces, ocean going clumps of land bobbing and restlessly seeking somewhere to deliver its bugs and bird nests , it’s on a schedule!  It traveled Cosmic creak and heard the  blow of my pious horn, when I angrily answered the blowing of the restless horn.

It reaches the miserable shore. It’s tubers are fat and slick with leaking palpal balm.  I row over and squeeze it out in threads and twist them into a rope.  The value of rug of these threads could buy a 400 meter length of fence every wild boar to  paw at and disrupt or knock over depdning on their preference!

I return to land. Docile Hotair floats above and I see the flash of his gold and copper buttons. The baby carriage holding  a sparrows nest rolls down the mountain and stops at my feet to  gouge a hole in our shouted discussion. I last said “My sacred Taiga home of the Time Bull is of melancholic value, we lose our place at the sparrows chirp hello or something. We return to the conversation. I explain:  ”His shed horn, less decorated, still rococo in spirit, is now my middle pocket’s resident gouger for calm but steady rock blocking our path. The papal excretion rope is securing our mulberry as the glue dries. “The house glances at us: rococo cold and humid.

We had to avoid a new request from the general that was passed to us up the Cosmic Creak, on the cosmic noise phone (model 1). The magpie rest station of papal rope is taken down, the salve is needed in a more serious place. I replace it with A bird sanctuary created from meat and ethereal beauty. The bovine time  carriage again rolls to my feet. I trace its roll.    At its origin I find a condemned old bird ordering around ten thin men. Lost hikers made docile and servie  to the staff of the jackdaw by  the cold and humid stroll? My  horn made Gouger attacks. I’m surprised as it unbuttoned my pouch on its own. It flies from my belly and seems  a blue/blueish arrow in tumbling restless flight, a sort of frisbee ready to calmly massacre a bird (not the good birds who sing you songs out of friendliness and general good attitude but the kind who own slaves and trick poor nature lovers into setting traps for me and the other  people like me as we secure the hills).

Dinner has  square courses of  sectioned jackdaw and jackdaw stuffed sparrow and the main course has the Christmas colored beautiful pheasant spy! ” Licky lippy nite, ” I squeal.  The wonderful pack of wild boar  who told us of magpie with backs strapped with guns and recording equipment and other items that put us in peril are here. (Don’t worry they use knives and forks like a civilized pig would)  My gouger buzzes around displaying its same cyanic shifting colors in what I think is glee in spotting all the beautiful animals he’d killed, it was a bit too high pitched until I adjusted his tone with a bit of papal blam on his breath valve. Braided  orders escape their shells knotted in our command papal cord and creak. To hollow out the baby mountain is the braid’s  point of discussion. My labial action had been seen by several darting  finches and was a popular point of discussion for 1 corner of the square courses. As they talked my food became denser and colder and more humid.

My mind went to the miserable baby carriage, its furniture sanded consecrated auburn. The color proscribed for only  the tubes that held consecrated cord. The Cosmic Creak brought a continuous flow of magpie and their materiél secured with thin rope. The finches tell me that the Jackdaw leadership has begun calling me  ” The melancholic racer who was created by the holy general’s request of The Good One.” and their bird allies have taken to calling me  ”The humid auburn colored racer who drifted in from the cold shore.”  I’d rather be called” the dossal draped loser who wipes balm on valves.” Another shot misses me as I watch the left mountain.  Another  attack cooking. We re-blow the horn that starts the heart of the Time Bull. He trots to our stand and tosses  what  calls “the rug of briber & beauty?”  I  advance on a rocky protrusion over the pass with the rug draped over me.  A reflection in my silver leather chromeo boots startles me. I’m beautiful! Hey, I’m good lookin today! The sexiest I’ve ever been. And the birds notice.

The seem to be cooking in their heavy black coats of feathers, seeming to miserable to be moved. Theri commander offers many types of food pellets and larger denominations of money in various national currencies (you know who likes what ( if you’re unaware i’ll explain later)! The condemned and ever restless sparrow advances toward me with its head down in sadness and something metallic glinting at me on its back? I sit on a  Rococo guard tower in the broad shape of a sanded bull? My  gouge slits a thin cord from the rope, it says “The birds are in love with you, they have never seen someone with such a sweet face and figure. They’d like you to cook and eat them with the knive they’ve provided.” I devoured their thin meat then. I paused to worry about poison and indigestion. The Jackdaws huddle on their pool of balm in our sacred taiga. The condemned baby carriage speeds to my feet again, but at the last second takes a  detour. News comes in: “The advance of the Magpie has halted at your mountain projection,  the auburn sparrows have become friends with our cattle! Hostilities seem near an end.”  The rope finally says something with more  value than balm rubbed on a  pig!(i’m aware its how our messages travel but it seems like a waste, doesn’t it?)   Does Auburn’s new body block weapons, like that arrow stuff?

The cosmic horn of roaming Christmas blows!  We all huddle, even  thin men. A Jackdaw summit. My friendly dyke is no longer melancholic and now awake! The dyke sees pig and wild boar. The rope reports cattle dropping horns so that we may gouge any meat. The peril to cooks flashes restless blue-blue yellow! Meat summit! The dyke stuffs her face while directing traffic around a  detour.  A rockslide. Mountain dogs yap at us for some reason.  The crunch of inhaling auburn hot air has escaped from the mountains as the dogs finally relay to us that we may dig the rocks.  The magpie backs are empty, save for the cosmic cosmic!  The time bull tells us to disturb sleeping jackdaws, the first roused tells me that he’s written an epic called “The Value of our Attack on The Melancholic Beautiful Racer, Friend of time bull, enemy of daw” He shows me The wartime rug coated in poulette and the birds eating it piece by piece in their bird arena.

Hot air.  The rope that The Good One revokes. I must advance in restless projection, it was part of the mountain but now it is me. I am interviewed by a n attractive middle aged woman: She asks what I remember. I remember The attack of the pious magpie in the mountain’s  shadow. The echo of braid communiqués on the taiga shore of the cosmic creek!  The bird who named me ‘racer.’  The beautiful noisy birds. A condemned christmas eating square courses of dead birds. The dyke’s blue flashes of hallucination and our old kiss, the message I sent in  braid about our miserable time together. The request of Palpal Balm From the see, told to me by the man floating on his button.

Now that i’m revered, bird saint friend of time bull, always draped in this rug which has disappeared to my eyes, everyone sees me beautiful, not in their own coneption but in mine, which is the best I think, and the most beautiful. Does the shine from my silver chrome boots awaken the sleeping prostitute? The finch on my window revokes the scolding he gave to my shadow as soon as he saw my figure.  My apartment holds the rug made  grease of beautiful kidneys pulled from the head Jackdaws. The prostitute  I’ve called comments as I pay about the heat of the air she breathes. Hot air.  Confine the mouth’s work, to one, the labial work to another, or one for all giving even favor? The prostitute spots my Beautiful shadow flashing blue  and thanks me, I thank her too!  Now roaming to advance in projection, my blue shadow or my flash of beauty? The sparrows announce: ”  Dossal dossal roaming, as I cross under their nest, projecting forward, being the projection and feeling taiga and breathing in overly hot, burning hot

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