when the spellbound poem includes me, I get roasted. the spellbound poem
streaks sadly, cowering under the spell of that lurking boom of dawn
that had the hospital enthralled last week. then who is in charge of
dumpsters, including the internment of all particulars of rubbish?
because there was noise upon that dawn, along with worries. okay,
worries are part of spellbound. Fu Manchu enters the foggy wilds of
London. he passes thru walls and disappears as needed. this is not a
vacation but you might splutter when the evil inscribes itself in your
reading matter. war time propulsion, game reentry into debate, truculent
dodging. well indeed, we are tired of the act in which George marries
welfare to stretches of august land that covers oil wells. we can blame
ourselves, and the satellites too. then a struggle much like a gift.
razor sharp wit of... not Sir Denis, that's for sure. no, Fu Manchu is
the clever one, Bush is the honed one. two rocks, scraped against the
sides of his head, greased with oil from the aforementioned stretches of
land, pointless debate in the name of some function that has been
enclosed unreasonably: that kind of honed. ridiculousness is cunning.
- dire more dire Allen Bramhall
- Re: dire more dire P!^VP 0!Z!^VP
- Re: dire more dire P!^VP 0!Z!^VP