Margaux makes fresh eye contact, fibrous slivers, a sickly resemblance to scrambled eggs.
Her plan to elude the elderly resembles the skeleton of a shark’s jaw; the rapidly accelerating collapse of the Great Dying, a sulphuric stew with somewhat more circumspection.
The ice started a fire; there is no other evidence or indicia of truth.
She was fully aware of the power that came with being ill, and annexed over the future of the universe.
Like a perpetual motion machine outside the threshold of the church, something has snapped inside, evil is not subsiding, an emptiness of the soul, irrevocable loss weighing on the heart.
Learning to fly in a downwards trajectory, a tragic achievement with scatological insults; the overspill of emotion part of your geography.
Memories slurred in cabbage and broken glass - smart junk, disposable wit, fetishized objects,
Pilgrims of Derangement impersonate Fantasists, a forcefield around eternity.
Autobiography deconstructed from relics, bleached of meaningful distinctions fungal avoidance teasing out moral complexities, esoteric longings and the nature of proportion.
The prejudices gave spiritual status, sensorial tonality, master of shifting discontent and diagonal momentum;
Too much to say very easily becomes nothing but static.
The impoverish soprano saxophone improvisation kills the Moody Gospel in an free wheeling jam session; a series of inconsistent contradictions, refusals to be contacted, doing his dirty work, by proxy.
You think it's money, it's not; it's personality, and you haven't got one lieutenant.
What has he got that Susie likes? Lost his leg to a home town sweetheart, a feeble alibi for amorality. Your every move is obvious, all antisocial perversion of value, not cleverness, not imagination, just brute force.
The line of wolves who are nothing to anyone. You are Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Caesar - Yes, they were skilled; but were they subversive?
People Will Know But Who Will Tell Them? Life Is War. A Short Man Is Not A Boy. I No Be Like You. Envy Never Lights A Fire. Gold Never Rusts. Still, It Makes Me Laugh. And Jesus Wept. No One Is Perfect.
Observers Are Worried, Why? Belly Never Know Vacation. Sea Never Dry. Love Is Good. Love Like Death. Cool And Collected, Lover Boy. Are You Looking At Your Mama? It Is Not Easy.
Women Hate Poverty Because Of Money. Shopping Is Believing. If You Don’t Look Well, You Will Not See Well. Paddle Your Own Canoe. You Too Can Try. But Why?
Don’t Blame Jesus. If God is Your Co-Pilot, Switch Seats
There are unseen forces that oppose motivation and seek to douse the flames of inspiration.
Sirens sound, waking up the dead; thieves are on the run, self-deprivation seems both a cosmic effect and an ethical imperative.
Memories are fragile; they invariably slip away, are easily destroyed, and as you know, motivation can be elusive, absorbing the potency of the cosmic shift.
When you add information, it becomes ambiguous; an odious atmosphere of tobacco, earthly morality, and pickles, connoting nothing pejorative.
The difference between knowingness and knowledge is only the echo of its source; this deliquescence into a comprehensive resonance is, like the slow beating of a giant’s heart, a declaration of ignorance.
Inhabiting a world of their own the waitress grabs the old coot, and with some music and bogus spiritualism she licks the last of the whipped cream off her fingers.
