Dynoline 3

It’s only the beginning. Now he turns to his aide-de-camp, “Poundophilia is an impossible dream.” Planets swarm at the arches. Sing as you go and let the world go. Win a docking manoeuvre through persistent lime parallels at the road margin, asking, “which way to the skyline…?” Align your genius with the unswerving. Here were you Wishing Wishing you were here. The only qualities that ensure certain victory are musical spheres like an ethereal cathedral. Be water, my friend, adjust the object. Be liquid around a solid enemy. Do not be at the mercy of the Judo Kinder, avant de la vive avive le rêve. As seen on TV. House your nuclear bombs in a warm dry place. Enter Now to Win sacred cows and naked emperors. All tax is rape/all rape is tax. Government on Night Scented Stock Exchange, high as the Chariot Peacock. I like public opinion. Advertisements sell you back your own lies. This summer we’ll market exoteric agreement thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. Lip to lip. Sellfie, and the sacraments of bruderschaft. Blood sacrifice sucking on arteries of oil. There’s never been an England. International Timeless is graffiti on embroidery. We don’t beg, we don’t pay, we don’t charge. Heat-seeking writers in Waziristan knitting the sox of martyrdom. The youth need injurious conflagration. There’s five loaves left, no fish. Karma cackles too enfeebled to face the cause. News Flash…Aliens admit they don’t exist. Greensleeves evolution flesh flood. Mood sinks on the global magic roundabout. Life is struggling for time to out-think the boxes. my head is unmade like Tracey’s tarty old bed. Like a reverse universe. Dreaming of Stone Virgins… of the Third Reich ©, and of Barbie-dog kidnapped in the Lost Ark. The world would be closer if everybody made do with a bit less certainty. Think while it’s still quite still.   ¡hasta la victoria! ……un dialogo intenso a favor de la naturaleza en armonía con la sociedad……La lute noir. Zero must be there somewhere or the Salafist Dada Nihilists win. Looking forwards we dare not lose our unflinching parsimony. My trove buried in our Gestaltbunker is your ontology on over-ripe to a dead ending. Win a year’s supply of beginnings. Add your comment here or there. Fill in your coupon to lose.


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