Terrible infants juggle fishnet-green bottles under sad, lime-green oaktrees, cisterns balanced on their sea-green heads.

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Christmas swings onto focus, the chiseling undertakers rent long, sad race-courses to walk on and they collide with other hypocrites out for a ridiculous Sunday ┬ástroll … too.

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the Radishes are coming. .. over the hyporical hill, hand bags flying in all directions.

one more unattended pituary gland= coming over the hill, handbag in one hand, whaler’s harpoon in the other. It calls, with the eerie, sad sound of a peacock? ”Oh All hallows dissenters, rest not until the deed is done!” and then diisapears into the yellow mist.

the glow worms and the ocean liner

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Wedges of blue cheese unimportantly placate each other, climbing, ever climbing.

Now the move is done – last steps under the sun – I trust – my products are second to none – no untrustful beatitudes – unlikely to calm sodden souls, unlikely to reap what they sow – a million glow-worms bedeck the night wrapped ocean-liner with a false dawn