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tearing the rag off the bush again
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S-wings into the light, a swallow in the hall, and out as in over. The context’s high flutter: the roof of the mouth, the mouth of the river. Roll me over the fluviometer, allowed to doubt the door closed on a loud (and how) cloud cover. Here’s a bout with about without much of a boat--not to crowd or crow over—but to gloss a glance at the wards (back to for) as key to a would-be warder. Beloved but not a louver. Given our driven and cloven hearts, better hoof it when the storm hovers. Just go. Or come to know the shower from the show

glowing lower, after after. Riveting Dada data into yada yada or featherweight father patter, bright assurances slur past disaster. Just a matter of being in clover: light on your feet (on the water), numb to number. Luck’s all in a row for the rower still towing the two towers, that fist mover, arriving to rev here his motto motor: heck of a heck of a heck of a huckster. Stir that into y’at dat dat dat, back at it. At at. Up to downriver to undo that fluent liar still oiling his troubled slaughter. He’d have us dotting the eyes of a storm of forms until ill but we’ll not sew to sewer more saltwater waves

we wavers. See underwater and also under Under. Rum numbers, numb members. Another bad dad had by hurt, another bird in the band flown like water. A shroud of cloud tears to show how slow clowning around drowns distrusted intelligence out, like, it’s all in your head (waters). Blurred word in these submerged streets: bad weather for bed wetters is best for our bettors. They tack back and north, correcting the dots, the daughter. The road her home, the corps her dumb lover: shoveling a brave face on the failure to save her with highway dividers. So go with the flow to

flower or stall in high style, pooled to appeal. Be a pal, be an appalling pallbearer, be there in that blunder. So behave: be a “have”--halve the fictional big picture’s son et lumiere. Sum for everyone? So know better next crime. Be as you were, unsolved and hardly sober soldier. It’s murder getting over now or never. Wet ever. It’s so long and so latte dough as acoustics accost costumed auditors lost in storm-tossed star-crossed kissed-off echoes: S.O.S. So. So. So solo soul, oh so soluble soma. Dark harbors. Sea? C.O.D. A-lights in the last call a tight swallow--god and gone--a fraud of your own shadow. Cold coda. Cod
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