Mahler's Fifth
(Jan 20/06)
Mid-March and Eliot’s still at it, make a fucking mess and tatter of things, whittling away at life, dental hygiene and millstones, fucking nonsense, and a blade’s blue-booker to boot and Mahler. Ginsoaked, no less, fucking scribe’s cramp, not an opposable thumb in the joining. And Mahler’s Fifth coaxing patricidal thoughts from the skittle of my thinking. Hat or no hat, the eye gouging is the same, Blackguards and Hoodoos, and pretty scullery hires in opposable rows. Addle-minded flossy, denticulate and bevel-edged. Not one to mince and monger with, nor harrow and bark. TBS. and marrow, terra firma split in cress’, a noman’sland of kurtosis’ and bear-bearded fellows, and some chivvy-shouldered chap with gugalug and the croup. Fucking sad state of affairs indeed, indeed. Saw Mahler’s Filth at the NACHO some time long gone and go, a slurry of shirttails and buttresses wane with triple sec and melba. Fosters the impression that the rich are imbecilic and prone to sashaying in neatly parried shoats. Sidestepping social conscience and alms providing. Hats off to the Viceroy, or Vicars’ melba, Christ’s skin scalloped with potables and tannic hooch. Spoils the tongue with cracker salt and rectory crumbs. Gods know what makes a stale biscuit a transubstantive treat, all that mollycoddling and goodly manners. Stephen Deadatlast, poking the afflictive dogsbody with a well-appointed stick, ashplant, for the merry of foot and poor dead Patty’s gravepost. Poor Stephen’s recently dead and deceased mother, rheumy and godsawful in bare patched gravescothes and harlot’s pin. Makes one what to bark and swisher with the likes of Blazes and Patty’s poor widowed widow. Nothing fixes up a bad day like a little of the in and out and porcine mummeries spewing mouthfuls of lactose intolerance. Gugalug, and so forth. That’ll be quite enough of that blather and rue, best left to those with ample thyme and a garland of marigolds and rosehip, or a gumming of no-salts and ampersands @.
Mid-March and Eliot’s still at it, make a fucking mess and tatter of things, whittling away at life, dental hygiene and millstones, fucking nonsense, and a blade’s blue-booker to boot and Mahler. Ginsoaked, no less, fucking scribe’s cramp, not an opposable thumb in the joining. And Mahler’s Fifth coaxing patricidal thoughts from the skittle of my thinking. Hat or no hat, the eye gouging is the same, Blackguards and Hoodoos, and pretty scullery hires in opposable rows. Addle-minded flossy, denticulate and bevel-edged. Not one to mince and monger with, nor harrow and bark. TBS. and marrow, terra firma split in cress’, a noman’sland of kurtosis’ and bear-bearded fellows, and some chivvy-shouldered chap with gugalug and the croup. Fucking sad state of affairs indeed, indeed. Saw Mahler’s Filth at the NACHO some time long gone and go, a slurry of shirttails and buttresses wane with triple sec and melba. Fosters the impression that the rich are imbecilic and prone to sashaying in neatly parried shoats. Sidestepping social conscience and alms providing. Hats off to the Viceroy, or Vicars’ melba, Christ’s skin scalloped with potables and tannic hooch. Spoils the tongue with cracker salt and rectory crumbs. Gods know what makes a stale biscuit a transubstantive treat, all that mollycoddling and goodly manners. Stephen Deadatlast, poking the afflictive dogsbody with a well-appointed stick, ashplant, for the merry of foot and poor dead Patty’s gravepost. Poor Stephen’s recently dead and deceased mother, rheumy and godsawful in bare patched gravescothes and harlot’s pin. Makes one what to bark and swisher with the likes of Blazes and Patty’s poor widowed widow. Nothing fixes up a bad day like a little of the in and out and porcine mummeries spewing mouthfuls of lactose intolerance. Gugalug, and so forth. That’ll be quite enough of that blather and rue, best left to those with ample thyme and a garland of marigolds and rosehip, or a gumming of no-salts and ampersands @.
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