A number of heads (identical) prying out window (broken), observing
passage (ponderous) of elephant (inflatable).
Now to my point (bobbing) about the polka (dot, dot, dot) and the resurrected mime (name: Bubbles) being open for business.
Now to my point (capsized) about my third eye (anchored) where your toothpick’s still lodged.
Now to my point (not formulated) about the flowers falling (down-the-mouth).
Now to my point (brobdingnag) about how long can I let my thoughts smoulder in this place?
Cyclops; Arges, Steropes, Brontes? You won’t encounter them.
Mr. Bones took the cardinal from the queen’s tongue. Proceeded to chew on her necklace. Mr. Bones took the bullfrog from the pope’s mouth.
Proceeded to retch on the carpet. Mr. Bones took the cabinet (baronial)
from the president’s chest. Proceeded to march through a great flood.
Why? There is no why.
More extremely. The pink elephant (floating) in the green bar (undesirable).
More extremely. The hippopotamus (careless) charging the wall (solid).
More extremely. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas (classic).
More extremely. Mickey Mouse (classified) fucking Aztec water goddess (porn star) with a German brick.
It was that petronius line of thought (silver) for which Mr. Bones sat, getting drunker, getting drunker.
*Unquote page 12.
The Legend of Zelda is (ignus fatuus) a high-fantasy adventure videogame that entails certain risks and almost preposterous perils. Forged by Japanese game-smiths, it was primarily developed in six days and on the seventh published by Nintendo though some portable installments and re-releases have been sourced to and so utilized by Capcom, Vanpool, Grezzo.
**Unquote page 21.
Wound in thy fly tape, the dull brain perplexes and retards.
Wound in thy fly tape, the penis suffers tremendously.
Update: Mr. Bones drinking scotch, throwing bread, hammers, napkins, old crumbs at swan.
Update: Mr. Bones drinking scotch, throwing traffic sign, coral vase, seven pairs of crutches at skunk.
Update: Mr. Bones drinking scotch, playing fetch with grenade, neighbor’s dog while dressed like Popeye (the sailor).
My methods are grand, peculiar, ambitious, but do not cohere.
See that apple? It hates you.
Logic? He drowned in a bubble when I was 6.
Reason? I burned her for being a black witch.
Justice? I shot it twice in the head, after which
it kept chasing after its own tail.
Question: How can we end this imbroglio?
While there is no consensus, Newton fucked a fish; Beethoven masturbated into an umbrella; Bach into an oven; Washington burned his teeth; Lincoln slapped his mother; Kennedy, the same.
Question: Warum spielst du die beleidigte Leberwurst?
[Why are you playing the offended liver sausage, old swine?]
Meanwhile, the enemy was stripped, forced to crawl with pompoms
through a hall of wild, itchy guerrillas (imaginable), rabid factory chickens, inflatable elephants, fake Shakespeares, one drummer boy (blind), two pandas (dead).
Everyone’s talking about Barbara. Who’s Barbara? What does she want?
Answer: 10 sphinxes, five tigers, three giraffes, one trout.
The trouble’s that I’m engaged to a zebra. His mouth (flogitious) crammed with autumn leaves, April’s dust, yesterday’s mothballs, all which make for my memoir (sad).
Conclusion: I forgot.
Conclusion: Truth deprives objects of their reality. As Wittgenstein writes, “object[s] [are] simple.” As Wittgenstein writes, “A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards as long as it does not occur to him to pull.” As Wittgenstein writes, "We are asleep. Our Life is a dream. But we wake […] sometimes.” As Wittgenstein writes, “Roughly speaking, objects are colorless.” As Wittgenstein writes, “When we can’t think for ourselves, we can always quote.”
Conclusion: A picture captured us. We could not get outside it. For we lay in its matrix and that matrix seemed to repeat itself, inexorably.