UtChat

Children roaming streets playing with sticks and stones. The laughing old lady gathering her chips for another round of bridge before heading to table. The good life looked over by raging gyms and sandlot dollars. There must be a ride in a truck. The glossy yield must dramatically incalibrate. Must lick the palms of the icy eyes. Too many sharps and they are only to make us out for our skulls. The shaped anthema of the Mexican ranch.

To see the street for its dusty quarters. To come up with spiels in the dithyrambs. A stories glory horder. Lets go and take a quick equator trip on the liberty tide of open house service and see if we cannot make out the women and the cogent of the place like chiel sanctimones. The Billy frame and the psaltry bow of scythe at lee in the tinsel lair.

To be a good bit past the running ground of disporters. Caravaning on the Davie Jones typography strata and tableau show. A good high hog to bitty and camp out against the speech, quit and borne, right mariner of calmer seas.

So many black orders on the peace. Packs of people and dogs on the new morning wandering at pesky and yet profound galavants of the old school crowing. Fish, fucks, friends and difficulties remembering. How many daisy chains to go kicking down a little something getting home. Rehearsing my roll in a story. Not to always be taken for some jack fool but rather to go over the lands down way and dream of the high returning tide. Too much grass and the park reverts to the transient church serpents pride.

The vert is crow for fodder of cry. The shire and the foremost stumping of rye and foundling punk. Have you a moment for singular expedience. Or are you afraid of being put down. Some reason that shied away. Some bottom that turned away shunned by shame and future folly.

If it goes to show that we are Sun worshippers. Why stoop to make it rain. Just saying the local host of provenders must be supplicated rite lightly in the aspect of quintessential norms. Glad to see you good charler. Beneficent is the grange kind sisterhood brag. The bias is in redown. The judgment seat is out of candy. Collaring the doge leaves citizens at leave with the call to aptly turn over a new leaf. With the crazed blackeye of rubbish. Sad lot of the current meatpie.

Well to get over the fencepost. The splayed feet beneath the camper mountain. Only the damned need to know more. The fleet is out to pasture and the grand eloquence of the buttered bread condolences have eaten the flag to make potluck and pilfered treaty out to bustling gates. Railing and trouncing beasties for so much as a teaching of their own good appetites.

That a way the glad barons have graves to lay down in. To simply be alone and no longer try to estrange the bussing services from their bluebirds. It has to be going down for the frickin’ pale of it. False prophets for false fear. The burning down of the firewall. I knew the ground was there. It just wasn’t mine to burden it.