W/y/e/as/t/y/h/e/x/y

Few few fellows had their chair merchants up and running. All said, a vague burning smell would permeate, but then you'd forgotten it was the middle of the month, and for once the smell couldn't be blamed on electronics. It'd come as a closure, a sense of wellness, or a peevish player mechanism, latent on one hand, but terribly impatient to rut like an elk on the other. Lists would resume: stunning lips and eggs and these here things meant-to-be-potable or pro or portraying the ovum of jaundices prejudiced into slim quivers for a wrap around reach and bury the bolt deep long into sides where ribs trickled and timed to various keys, well, that was an overture to taste! I'd keep on clapping. Seemed there were many of these timings; places where I'd put a few too many hand slaps into a dentine rotation to "call good" the gods of entry reentry and capable correspondent. A soapy film would encrust, at least over time, appearing in that musty hummus colored ring around pools, ankles, and places just aching of leagues' bile and vice grope further aspects of spine and grave. Daily, man. The trust was a penny, letting loose like a midnight tryst and fable. Olden mires, maybe a lady you'd had the pleasure of lipping the wildest curves and hopes to awaken from the figs and mangroves like some other than the hilt of pikes jousting paranormals and emeralds and bad novels kept at the waist. A ship to shire and shield from the next abatement of incomings and eyebrows, those warmths, akin to odors used in letters or alongside soiled batches of clear transparency and acetate methodology, she would bounce the layover for days, and my overlay was entering a loop phase, third moon anecdotal, tongued to a shiver of zinc and the slightest whisp of chewed-off foil.