An Unrepentant Stalin
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| - | The dough-bellied protaganist of [[Stimes Addisson's]] 1932 play ''Lascaux Fitted'' the unrepentant Stalin moved through historical vignettes with such speed and expert acrobatic, the calories expended drove the actor commissioned for the role into bear-like soily graves, auto-graphed nearly for all by season's end. A trophy was devised by comrades, levied about through appropriate jittery-bill flu, eventually, we have loved each other, dreadfully. And here we arrive. There is not kidding about, no savage ball-bombs. Is that your immense poetry I see before me -- or, by proxy, do you agree with meeting us all? | + | The dough-bellied protaganist of [[Stimes Addisson's]] 1932 play ''Lascaux Fitted'' the unrepentant Stalin moved through historical vignettes with such speed and expert acrobatic, the calories expended drove the actor commissioned for the role into bear-like soily graves, auto-graphed nearly for all by season's end. A trophy was devised by comrades, levied about through appropriate jittery-bill flu, eventually, we have loved each other, dreadfully. And here we arrive. There is no kidding about, very little fucking around. No savage ball-bombs. Only a pocket of loose bullets -- called out by scripture! Is that your immense poetry I see before me -- or, by proxy, do you agree with meeting us all? |
| - | So went the first steps of the little girl, pig-tails agape. She shrugged. After shrugging, she resumed her prior demenaor. Camera ''fucking'' One. | + | The bedliner won't take the marking of a ball-point pen, so I get up. Up, I'm compelled to move ''across''. This proves tricky. For a man so profoundly post-rock, I'm having problems with pattern. |
| + | So went the first steps of the little girl, pig-tails agape. She shrugged. After shrugging, she resumed her prior demenaor. Camera ''fucking'' One. A hard shadow, so hard in fact, the lens did bend like dirty red headed girls (after blogging). | ||
| == Extrapolation == | == Extrapolation == | ||
| ---- | ---- | ||
| - | [[David Payne|Dave Payne]] and [[Watermelon|Steve Adkins]] clearly delineate a kind of Maginot. We, the [[Ariosophy|Germans]], are on the other side, getting classical. The yage yonder, however, composed of shirt-skins, tend to ''feel their way around'' the root. Plasticine porters indeed! | + | [[David Payne|Dave Payne]] and [[Watermelon|Steve Adkins]] clearly delineate a kind of Maginot. While we have arranged for pant-cloths to be exchanged I've recieved word of a discomfited bit -- wheedling, basically. We, the [[Ariosophy|dirty Pollock Irishmen]], are on the other side, getting classical. And by classical I mean largely naked and by that meaning without fiery automobiles of Purpose -- apelike in our wonder, our glee at living! Hairs commend a soul to light, it would seem. But doubts malinger. Like shadows all pumped up. Or doubts, they linger like mexican yard-workers swindling an old Protestant Woman. Stymy my advance they seem to ask, but her eyeballs from the window -- on nakedays! -- it's pure syrup of sadness, real televisual melod-rama, painful, like seeing dead animal, all agut, but eyes dark coal reflective. The yage yonder, however, composed of shirt-skins, tend to ''feel their way around'' the root. Plasticine porters indeed! |
Revision as of 11:05, 30 Jul 2005
The dough-bellied protaganist of Stimes Addisson's 1932 play Lascaux Fitted the unrepentant Stalin moved through historical vignettes with such speed and expert acrobatic, the calories expended drove the actor commissioned for the role into bear-like soily graves, auto-graphed nearly for all by season's end. A trophy was devised by comrades, levied about through appropriate jittery-bill flu, eventually, we have loved each other, dreadfully. And here we arrive. There is no kidding about, very little fucking around. No savage ball-bombs. Only a pocket of loose bullets -- called out by scripture! Is that your immense poetry I see before me -- or, by proxy, do you agree with meeting us all?
The bedliner won't take the marking of a ball-point pen, so I get up. Up, I'm compelled to move across. This proves tricky. For a man so profoundly post-rock, I'm having problems with pattern.
So went the first steps of the little girl, pig-tails agape. She shrugged. After shrugging, she resumed her prior demenaor. Camera fucking One. A hard shadow, so hard in fact, the lens did bend like dirty red headed girls (after blogging).
Extrapolation
Dave Payne and Steve Adkins clearly delineate a kind of Maginot. While we have arranged for pant-cloths to be exchanged I've recieved word of a discomfited bit -- wheedling, basically. We, the dirty Pollock Irishmen, are on the other side, getting classical. And by classical I mean largely naked and by that meaning without fiery automobiles of Purpose -- apelike in our wonder, our glee at living! Hairs commend a soul to light, it would seem. But doubts malinger. Like shadows all pumped up. Or doubts, they linger like mexican yard-workers swindling an old Protestant Woman. Stymy my advance they seem to ask, but her eyeballs from the window -- on nakedays! -- it's pure syrup of sadness, real televisual melod-rama, painful, like seeing dead animal, all agut, but eyes dark coal reflective. The yage yonder, however, composed of shirt-skins, tend to feel their way around the root. Plasticine porters indeed!
