just words in a sentence

here you are then, just words in a sentence, fitting improperly grid
pocket solder flux, just words tipped out of a bucket cod pencil dish,
look it collapsed on the carpet like pocked farm wit, sod the darned
sock collapse ethernet thread irq socket connect switchback gnar.

you don't know what the heraldry you are. look it up on feather imp
lactose integer flood light carousel just murks in a dungeon, like
scents in a tent peg, flags on a rented keg, and pots played by a
quartet steroid, like the queen of the burnt hot cross bun cornflour

yes, you like turds in the past tense, not in the present sense, of
destruction, the quenching of Hirst via aquifiying pacifiers. so here
there is your proof, the roof of your aloof posture of foof, suck bled
tooth. the proof is this, my my my waving of the clans of curdled milk
tambourine playing felons pasting craddle snatched bipartite peddlers into
imprecision. farting blurs the line between reality and creative
testimony. it's not good, this proof, it proves nothing but that your
opinion is the correct one for you to plantain.

i've lost my words, sitting quietly, voice held back as always for there
is someone whose voice is more important than mine. can you guess whose
voice it might be? tick tock tick tock, here is the attention you
require. my sir. philanthropic my sir. technical dilation of crane flies
importing botox through the underground ventricles of civilisation on
the brink of collapse. dire warnings perhaps. but steady on my cravings
for horse meat never existed hello kind sir why you eat chalk fried type
two?  cramp in the ether regarding john's take home pay, i'd say,
increment by one.

i've got a soft spot for you. it's in my brain. you keep press-rotating
creature. it's aloft. squidgy pissing obsolesence, right off, falling from
above straight down to the button hole of still water odometer creosote
fled dangling oblong mantissa.

i'm not waking sense here. i yet you didn't quess hat. am i right? am i
right winged? am i too right winged for dour pastebin?  am i too right
red painted letter box for your door step? mantissa overflow. am i too
law stop for your letter box? fledgling mantissa overflow to the power
of excellence in grammar. your doorstop killed my spirit, my love of
life. am i too right winged for our cavalier platitudes? 

am e-cigarrete pencil dash rind questioning sellotape tropic rigidity
amongst suave letter combs of the ordinary tan line pigeon drone
pestilence an e-cigarette amongst a dash of lemon droppings blind
tempest author of tressel tables manager bloom of forceps ratboy ratboy
quick led LED lie detect ping apple goat big pipe for your suckle dome.



"just words in a sentence"

Descriptive text of inscripted criticism

Journal entry - 22:00 Wednesday 10 September 2014

DISCLAIMER: The opinions and attitudes of James W. Morris as expressed here in the past may or may not accurately reflect the opinions and attitudes of James W. Morris at present, moreover, they may never have.


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