on prime eel au fate

Odd specks tackle. Well apparently there was something wrong-- they'd huff in classic pride and with withered carpals point, as if to say: look at him? Too much hubris and yet still, bottom rung stubborn scrubber and appointedly plovered, a mere prince of mud. See? Denizen gentle had no measure. They'd scoff. You're an owl, you're a goer, you're a hiss and spit, you're a lifer, an abortion of our value romes, miscarriage of pregnant hope, a lost foul found in revelatory termite tower, cascading in worthless mirth, no til death to bury heads in twelve, like the rest of us, gauged mort, a hindered hundred prius cuff. Merrily dime, an affront to an age. How dare he? And you? Gazing in sandwich board cowls, as purulent as they chime, gloating over in petty sleeves of hollow piques and praxis; uddering in nihil milt how deep you've come, parlaying the elastics on everstretch & Saturnian ring-- some kind of better protein? Aesop, eh. Assailed and enervated. Beset with circinate fronds and curls maybe wiser than time, that timber underneath would mix with the brown, and damned wouldn't you know, the synonyms and sluices would run out and overbreast, rendering digit prods and appendices to the useless pox of human hex and inanity. No shame in spent cartridge pens, impuissant is the new erection salve...

C'mon analyst, you know he loves you.

(yes staid for sloth pursy)