the idle instruments


Woman with stroller, point. who is at the
second story window? My grandfather devoured
by hipsters, yeah, hipsters, horrifying! Jason Priestley’s
wife is decomposing, and Frank Poncherello cha-chas in
pleated trousers, this sciamachy is tinted with beige. Is anyone
wearing Justine Bateman? I hear that chick’s the rage.

All thumbs play that beatific organ, dig that daily
badumdumdum! pigeons oscillating ataraxia and zugzwang;
it’s a full count for Fisk, Munson knew the risk. The intentional
walk is never assailed by Budweiser. I regret there are more fools
among us in this cavalcade as I collect spores, molds, fungus,
and accolades; we be fast, and they be slow.

Luchadornado! Masked Mexican whirlwind, mesmerizing
your girlfriend, removing her clothes with rolling RRRRRs
and banishing you to a triangle of timberwolves: one-man
performance coup de grace with no assurances, no weapons,
no monkey’s paw. Do you plan on attending the war heroes’ rodeo?
Invert the lariat; it’s the Great American Told Ya So.

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