Panselmo Gnoctuary Poem.

 

Incident at The Old Temple Bath.

 

This happened at my Old Temple Bath. We were waiting near our kingly door. I had already been decorated with prints in more than the tan shade alone. My hair held a waxy sheen all its own. Pretending was over. But on the bright side, anyone who wanted to could see that all of our most humble emotions would come into play in a moment of dainty empathy. People who remarked on the quality of our faces had the right to claim ignorance when it came to the detection of mild trembling in the eyes of fair-weather frauds. Let's hope we can keep them safe from their own petulant indiscretions. God may be our final recourse. For that you will pay.

Now someone swings the door with a partial lid and has a hard time seeking justice in this, our thirty-first year on the ground. There, but for a dark-haired person, we feel certain that sticking around near the barrier might have appeared to have a certain 'ring' to it, like none other that people in our group have declined to notice since Day One. It always goes better in the dark, but plenty of others feel confident enough to remove a telltale marking that clots the breezeway and renders most of our studio opportunities into your standard issue 'miasma-du-jour'. When I bring up this plaint, to the irritation of most, I make a sullen gesture with a peculiar aspect of my anatomy which gets their attention to circle in on itself. They are—each of them—coping as best they can, having wandered throughout the previous night near the Pleasant Soup Factory and held an impromptu sing-along with the distended mentors of the Carolina Boating Commission [CBC].

When I consider playing a trick on someone taller by orders of magnitude than your vengeful superbud, it means a store visit will be one of the outcomes of a future series of activities. This involves modes of locomotion, making small talk with a disgraced investor, learning to read and speak Latin by age nine, and finally, taking a firm hold on the one thing that most people miss if they're out of the system for more than a week or two. I present to you my Iron Siding Chef Competition. All entry fees will be waived in the interest of impersonal diversity, with all that implies. For the Women of the Lillies, a message will be sent. All others are urged to remain in place until the last conflagration brings all our queers a blast of telling stances. The way is clear. Please perform an activity meant for apparent persons.

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Yes Friends, The Gloves Have FINALLY (!) Come Off.

 

The gloves have come off in my dining platiner and I'll rave about it later once the time of the hour has been set. There's no getting around an uncomfortable question of affordability, but likewise, a settlement is a distant memory and we're all sure of the one thing that counts more than the others. What gives us a solid footing, though, isn't thought to be when a hand is withheld at distance. But from this far away, the only vehicle which comes into a romantic view is sure to adhere to a trend-line that others could find hard to fake. You can tell by the way  people in chairs waver as they dwell on a minor fiasco that gives them a basis for incremental appeasement. We'll have one for our own road and disown the others. These others, I might add, are known far and wide for their profligate pneumonism. They say it keeps their head in a peculiar game. One of them had always flown with us until yesterday.

Now that a crime is in process (this would be behind a shed, but in broad daylight, nonetheless), we've decided to take our good sweet time and approach a seminal figure whose donated plasma has enabled unbilleted inciters to score a load of scorched earth problematics and head for the nearest desultory mound of evacuated pith. It's our only hope to keep deficient plastic from burgeoning in our feed. I will score all sincere non-violators with a truncated vent from a diachronic puffer-ball coach. He's wanted for questioning in the Fiona Farkler case. You've heard about it, right? No? Well, take it from me, people who like to walk around won't like what they hear. Please, just do the math.

The chain which is presented as a virtual pendant can only be removed for cause. And, even then, some fly-by-night operators will still be held blameless if your jaundiced mascot evinces even a modicum of gaping syncrasm. I'll be on stand-by throughout the night, ready to log your call in the flightbook which is ready at the keeper. Our frame is the broadest possible inverted cube. It attaches with scalloped hooks that you can find beneath your final harboring bench. What scares us is if, while backing up with no flowing hoops to spare, something comes into your head which could give you a reason to forego a wrist abjurement. There are likely one or more stains on the precipice of a lovably ingrown doodad. If anyone who you've seen recently is a known person then we WILL take action. The only remaining question is: What would your reaction be if we recommended you be re-assigned in perpetuity?

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The Upcoming Investiture and Its Piquant Aftermath.

 

During the coming Investiture, which has been the subject of not a little consternation, our opening idea is to wait until a loud knocking is heard from below and take that distractive opportunity to wrangle a deplenitive wench into a wayward opening on the opposite side so that any residual doubts are evaluated as dubious at best. With each of her arms pinned into a staircase-type of position, three of our turncoats will pronounce her a liability to our cause and leave her confused as to the origin of a blanking flash. Only the slightest scratch will be enough to effect a transfer to a more congenially shapeless affair. For this we only offer the most turgid of elemental instructions. You must remember that she has promised numerous times to carry a light and frimpy shield to signal a masterless deficit of penumbral strokes.

When it comes to the plea that I will submit at the end of next month, each participant is asked to donate one solid red setboard and memorialize a list of qualified ruminants whose actions are questioned even if our own Federally subsidized preachments engulf a packed house of raffish teddies. Their own smell is a clue, as if any were needed, that this activity is throbbing with opportunistic borderlessness. They feel that your expressions of devotion should be enough to end a day of rootless whispering. I tell them that their style of carping is likely to help us monetize the flood-eating cafeteria at the end of an extended lounge-type spatial arrangement. They act like I'm seeing things when all I want to do is lead by an example that is not to be trusted in any case. Yes, I was bowled over. Is that why you asked? Don't tell me.

When it comes to pestering League officials with a statistical ponsibiquity, anyone who is aligned with our peripheral magnet is guaranteed one solid oak mystallion to be assigned in the order of conformance and treated with a subtonal perfuke at a random second hand blotch. Her vocal performance is tantamount to a ready-made confession of misadventures in a highlighted instrument or two. You will go there with a former friend in tow. I will bind each of you to a tinged yellow box of some distinction. This is not to be trusted without my say-so. Just ask if my name is Joseph Santangelo. Then approach me about my part in helping your companion engage in questionable behavior. And finally, if you find any of my responses to be problematic, you will be given a ceremonial plaque for safekeeping during the upcoming disturbance. That should keep you quiet for the remainder of the term. Can I have that in writing? No.

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Abfactual Reflections.

 

The shape defines its owner by the color of the day it reaches fruition. The sound is one of serious caution, although one may love definitions beyond any strategy of pulling in tandem. We live beside a halted landslide of immeasurable promise. Personally, I keep a leavened derpictionary at the ready to aid in the observance of predicate disorders of the ontic flesh. She, who rescues any who sink beyond our willingness to negotiate a pageant of soundless yelling, will enable the transmission of our customs into a newly conquered borderland. There, the ones who flip inside a ring have limited recourse to the power of song over love. Any face which greets the rising gun with a toothsome promise of fidelity to a dreamed up calculation, is shown to be the one for which all late arrivees offer a word of balsamic cheer.

You can tell that we never made an effort to treat the demands of faded characters with the seriousness indicated by our expected farewell address. All attendees who evince a sound quality which encourages an internal spinning sensation are set to receive a reward in the name of a deceased caller to our show. This will be one of the few times they are allowed entry into a camp that bears the name of an anonymous settler.

Clothing is inspected and a person who lives in a room may be delayed while rumors are circulated in name only. Where might we grieve when all who plow are given a gentle tap into a wider lesson? The fate of charity balloons is no mystery if lanterns serve just as well to ache the day. As it is wide, so does it glow. And now, with a chipper meal afoot, all of our basic parameters are fixed to a negative charge as our well is groomed for future cases. Inside of each case we place the tonal result prior to the ingestion of any plan. When asked about our signal, his only response was to  point his staff at our half-finished enclosure and aver that his own wagon was well and truly cooked. And yes, this surprised no one at all.

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Sonic Wrink Land (the First)

 

Michael Roper 5 · Wrink Land I

A Brief Portrait of Two Known Persons.

 

One claims to be the recipient of a set of facts which he can trace to their inchoate origins. The other, seemingly without the approval of his peer cohort, prefers to be seen in the company of large-fisted young ladies of a Slavic profile. Together they decide to corrupt one of our finest Companies for the private amusement of a non-compromising base, the overarching goal of which is to one day see each and every person of a prohibited flancing status be reduced to a red-light behemoth figmented in our very own shelter of frailty. I have seen both of them in action, most recently during a drive I took into the Central Highlands of Northwestern Virginia. As each one reached for my cape, I let it be known that my appetite for juvenile wariness had reached its sell-by date in just the manner they might have safely supposed. It was a warning sign, as if any were needed, that those who we previously thought could be hounded into a basalt containment regime when all others had demonstrated their profound motionlessness, could be brought to term in only the dimmest light imaginable. Sorry if that breaks anyone's iron resolve. It couldn't be helped.

When the breen is fought to a standstill, all anyone sees fit to consider, is what a guy who used to do my nails used to call, with a rare if unbastardized candor, a trial which tests our ability to hold space for the likely opponents of our lamest targets. This is how micro-sound often enters the picture. On the plus side, it can be proven, without recourse to patently feeble constructs, that a brightness on the seeded end need not engulf all who enter without life-positive support compounds. To our detriment though, when persons whose names are randomly disclosed seek to nullify each of our vain attempts at resolution, then our 'army of one' will scorch their testament in a manner that can no longer be tolerated without a blast-prevention workshop taking place during the off-months of every second year. This is why we hold you nightly inside a fraught ligature. It couldn't be any easier than that.

With the drain on our resources now verging on a full-gallop phase, we think it only fair to request that anyone who goes by the moniker of Dermott Driscoll now come forth to enable us to enshroud a phantasm in plant-based residual warning flaps. You'll find that they usually measure in the six to nine mile range. The colors will quite often shift from a tawny yellow to a frimpy aquamarine luster. The hairs, while sometimes resembling infant oyster threads, are once in a while found described in lists of risk tangents attached to the normalized flow of meta-logical umbral palace shits. Thus we go to our most taut specimens for believable succor to withstand the expected shift of pleasant balances in our most boring practice mode. No one who hasn't handled these kinds of extended farm trophies can be expected to seek a moment of rest in a fully bitten wainscott. They won't be coming back without the usual fenculic pleas. Please take just a moment to consider that. Okay.

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