Just In Time for Politics

Fennel paste first thing in the morning and tell me no mint before noon. Then it's a spin on a quarter past kicking around yesterday's infantilized idea to see if it still has a death rattle. The west is just a waist size writes the blunt end of a flyover bullhorn. The east is a Warhol-ish war hole. Cold-pressed geriatric diptychs. In-memoriam is my favorite part of the republic's rewards card. Punched-out eyeballs, but gauzy burratas coddled in melting roping curds of severed optic nerves. Booze-tickled retinal-ranch slurp-stomping blindly through the Midwest’s lower alfredo district. Go west, young Amazon diver. Paint seashells brightly so big petroleum can hide them from hoarding hermits sleep-walking towards pricy insulin ankle jelly as priceless as squadrons of soup dumped through pancreatic chutes of corporal-major-sergeant’s bilious guttering mastermind's gold-leafed acting troupe. When you have time, can you not ruin my glue? I'm so dead-horse beaten I could mount a divot count of proxied saddle screamers. Happiness is a cold bayonet and winter is a warm vacuum cleaner. Charge! Charge you damn sea current! Please pay to wait for temporary raffle authorization application. Oh, this other machine works something quick. It's a one o'clock somewhere salty licorice stick-'em-up. One hand bites the dust and the third hand dangles preserved gummy rivulets. Everything I learned in second-hand kindergarten I tied to a tofu brick and tossed in the La Brea Tar Pits. Stick around if traffic is getting salty with your fresh. Giggle at kids pickled in puddles of purple-black petrol blurps and still get home in time to vote.