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It troubles me how such a promiscuous babe of the south could be expected to bear her indignant quarrel with quiet, reprimanding lassitude.
It harks of the time of birds, when their short fleece glinted in the misty sun, showing us the true nature of boisterous pugnacity.
It shows us chinks in the wassails of archaeology, where knowing no immediate shame, shows us yearns of procrastination.
It yells of a beefy shame found in the Cotswolds, internal to confounded reason.
Of these things, only plenitude beats barbaric fossilisation of the primitive lobe.
Hark! Hear the birds in the night, shrieking the pain of a festering multitude, burned to the core of their fullness, known time by dissection: to the brim of death!
We wish for polarity’s course to be an inversion, literally polar to attributed ramshackle pockets of doom!
It lives in the cohesive and tectonic manifestation of time immemorial, from the brink of wayward bastardies, to unfulfilled, evanescent dreams of privilege.
Woe is felt in the systemic symbiotic symmetry of foul friendship forgotten!
Piffle and gruel in the grots of mankind! Woe tide pig of epic monstrosity… Gargantuan abysmal ogre!
Descend into the nothing that awaits ye!
I spit chick peas at your fortified abdomen, Rasputin of the foul seas stentched and engroined in the cesspits of the id!
BEGIN YOUR MACHIAVELLIAN DESCENT INTO THE BARBAROSITY!
