Ltd. April Fools Pranks & Gypline Ceilings
like the irony of this sky, like the tears below this, um,
dome of human grief. Or rather, dome over
human failings that twinkle, a
brief calligraphy of voices imitating each other.
Like navigation links on animal skin, like
editing textures of currency. Like infrequently accessed
relieved spring RAM, like building fantasy cable
right now! Like Ghandi-esque malfeasance, like
The biggest problem of a crowd
is our own toes.
I stand around with Jordan, Professor of Economics
behind People’s 50 Most Beautiful People.
Dad would basically open the parlor to any socialist
willing to unzip their pants.
One brought a decoy of Leslie Nielson’s modular panties.
Insufficient wireless gate opener remote problems
from self made turban ports
quadrature for sexy binary africa trucks
no smaller a New Urbanism than
oracle party boy gatekeepers on skidoos.
Like a lipid-rich environment of valley-speak & the
natal escapist ping of asparagus porn in the gorge.
Like crackhead McQueen confrontation in Borneo.
Like a weird touchpad on my crotch ready to switch
from timmyboy to Cassandra all grown up.
Like computational panther-styled vegetable garden water
leaving karate in the hallway.
Turnabout is fair Cynthia Rockrock.
Fresh water bottle mayonaise
while loud speakers gab luminescent auroras of useful info.
This savage unity, synthetic beauty in Turnbow relief.
Into a lovely smile that’s
blooming an oil rainbow. Lovely botulism risk, we agreed it is
disconnected or no longer in service.
Won’t be dumped from handling
carnauba wax in the other prison away from Bill Berkson.
No human accountability in Mineral Management Services, there never was
any golden age of journalism, as we must write checks
to grow this thing. But the people in the middle are bugged
by the people on the other side talking preliminary despair and pizza shortage.
But the slides show blooming fascism in the dioxide corridor, a combined
3rd bloody week of combo-cults and groundwater war!
Back when Roy Rogers, Tom Mix, Gene Autry, The Shadow
and The Nelson Family set the tone for ethical behavior, Greyson Chance
was a spermy gaga in the left eye of the market. When in doubt, you could always
say “market”, in a market, or at a Submersible Refridgerator Support Group.
In the future, plumbing will betray a pained spontaneiety.
People will vote to “give the knife” to the President. I thought
Ball Barkson thought, “Here’s a fattie who’s to maul me
to make his way to the half-mist/mast carnauba wax dinner rolls.”