The Sound Alliteration
ok. . . .completely pack without becoming who would become directly conjuring coincidences in the inventions 500 years from this crafting with that quality creativity undertakes attacking innocent cases, cabarets, and speck-free Visqueen; as craftsmanship that took a couple of loquacious knick-knacks so rickety crashing off counters and indicating corners fucking sticking perfect landings in the art of classic rock stations, vacant boxes in particular, functions I could completely like come into the kitchen coaxed for a change to communicate in my pockets, like stick people underneath desks and thinking cramps and cocks immediately fatigued that came from eating birthmarks or freckles or anxiety; but maybe just maybe crazy sensations my kidneys back up with accentuating kind of incorrectly on the back of my back, so chorus … mmmmore commonly recognized in the car logic as chills; because we can become the speakers make-believing exotic cellophane wrinkles reflect oil in puddles like electric discharges decked out as a comedic character (clown costume colors) like too drunk to care to comprehend or recognize like that accomplish covered and speckled squanders to speak, creak creak inefficacy aksing –can we conquer cancer like Lance Armstrong? Thus constructing extraordinary structures of things instantly antique in chaotic fiction, owning reactions entirely too crumbled to breathe or even cream right after lunch too, as the junk food causes closed flexes, and he blew cheeks and exhaled this long tropical drink, and caused more ache too clenched really; but trying to rid me quick fixes I cannot awake from in the deep knockout killed cruelly drooling intervals of distinct microscopic punctures caustically crass, the coarse handshaking, the broken concrete framework of picketing / of picking our nucleus with the exceptional say -the statuesque- the one with chops and the other card so wild-like half-black creepy low ceiling parts of the city, cuz I get on me patchy reeked cheeks, tickles and gack, or yack, coke-filled about my careful choosing whom to cover the sick curled-over wrinkled joking or trying too softly spoken, to pick big country too, the smoked trying to quit asking “you like music?” but the strange silence clusterfucks in allocations and cuckoo characteristics, so gray curls, quirky, the electric charges and cigarettes occur and this will be our little secret, that he caught me once more watching, sky looking like we got ourselves another dreamer checking the overcast and tricks of the vacant ceiling ever thought-provoking that machines went all Faulkner-like digging gravely into each its own inevitable quite completing completely eliminating complaining and so yet everyone kept their freedoms and everone microwaved in fascinations and old knowledge and wit and these curiously cabled geeks of similes of ignorant rickety figurings, of obscenities I watch like secondary gawking, which almost made me realize just how ridiculous it can encounter and contact that interaction, scrambled gravitation and took action taken upon individual sacrifice, processing in the best possible experience, the vessel occupied half-expecting or better yet uncomprehending that no others can feel or can’t perceive me needing so much more psychologies of situations and taking what they need back home to concentrate mmmost of the creations they made, while mechanically commixed without thinking twice about it, I say just react instead of constantly thinking to become ever so perfect. . . .