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| fig.25.32) rot in the hutch is not a bunny's dream |
Then after drying all of their feet on the grass the swans get bullish along the path. "So goeth the code, say I, away-away-up-up-down-down-left-right-enter-start today. There's the fucked up holiday bullshit with the forks that are following us here." They're always the first to be dressed as they stand there in yellow, then as a barber and at last it's as if they're the same terrible priests that they always has been. Some of them are mostly aimless and some are like goldenrod with the scrub and the thorn that they've strewn around. Still, I find this to be funny and it's rhapsodic like it's been filled up with tipsy bunnies. There's the epic daisy, the sheep in the farmers barn that are waiting patient and worn for the aimless cartographer and his flatulent and waffled butt to finally appear. It is for him that we'll lift this glass tonight.
"You can't sing away the old rhymey Fatty Arbuckle fantasies with muses and stones, nope. The days too late away for that. The days another day today and it's bitter folk are its own and they themselves are bold. Green goes, Sing I, green goes the ghost..."
There's the anal triangle with the Horus Eye and it's illumination gesture at the bottom of the jug, they're either singing along together in the rain or they're just effed uppity eff and up-upnessed. Just like every people that are everywhere, it's the old drums and the broken homes that make the softer music that we'll hear soon enough. If they can't speak cheaply then they'll do so loudly. If they can't then still they will, even if they never should. Because they're not full of range the every people have very little nuance for themselves, this is what the every people don't understand. They've got no appetite for their own perspective, for the actions that they too often lose down the losing hole. The every people being everywhere those people that are making too much noise for themselves, that is. But the judgement of bone is silent here and the solemnity of dirt has for itself no want of a phone with which to call you or you or you instead. It does not vote nor wait for fingers upon which to crawl about. I thinks that it must enjoy a simple sandwich still, a treat at the Midway. Maybe something typical rather than something that's hammered or banged geographically to be extraordinaire.
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