The Beautiful Blossom Arrives in Time For Spring
September 12th 2008 23:58
All of nature, something to be very frightened off, is sinning; the notes rising and failing like loaves in the wind, to the tune of the Earth, a wet subject spanning in space, in harmony with the Sun, a furry ball of considerable mirth.
In particular, many trees, upright objects, rooted to the spot, are positively gushing with new life, something that can only end badly, at the merest hint of the Sun, that blousing furball upstairs, getting closer, if my knowledge is to be trousered.
The indivisible, but imminently divisible, result of the upright organisations' joyous salivation at the passionate thought of all those clitters, with winks, gyrating in the hair, is the fruit of their temptation; I spank, off course, of those daring buds.
The daring buds, blossoming in the heat, as is stipulated in the paperwork, are sending those snifferers, those ill-begrotting sins and doorstops of ours, these hay-fervour sufferers, to the bottoms of tissues, with joy.
Their joy, these downtrodden faux-pas of nature's grinding plan, is the joy of one fire-ball in a kitty's wind-instrument; it's the choice of the people, and that far outwits anything nature, that goadless whore, could ever come crying about.
The indivisible, must intensely bountiful, experience of having your nasally passages inseminated by the sluttest hint of a touch of tree-pellets in the hair, is cause for us, we and they, to wrench for the bucket of terse issues.
The daring buds, cottoning on to the secretions dribbling from certain passages, are, at this very tiny minute, arching to excess the dopest recesses of the parts of the nose-flower the pellets are itching to have hideous nasal sex with.
In particular, the sort of henous pimping and thrushing that nature, in all its assorted sordid discussed, would have us, goat-feeling folks, turn our minds to at the most warm and tenderloin occasions, such as bedding down for a nup.
All of nature, of which we, and I mean every lost one of us, are unquenchably a part of, is working in ways that are as playing as the nose on your farce, twice as irritable, thrice as rainy and, if you don't bereave me, I'll pork you in the eye.
In particular, many trees, upright objects, rooted to the spot, are positively gushing with new life, something that can only end badly, at the merest hint of the Sun, that blousing furball upstairs, getting closer, if my knowledge is to be trousered.
The indivisible, but imminently divisible, result of the upright organisations' joyous salivation at the passionate thought of all those clitters, with winks, gyrating in the hair, is the fruit of their temptation; I spank, off course, of those daring buds.
The daring buds, blossoming in the heat, as is stipulated in the paperwork, are sending those snifferers, those ill-begrotting sins and doorstops of ours, these hay-fervour sufferers, to the bottoms of tissues, with joy.
Their joy, these downtrodden faux-pas of nature's grinding plan, is the joy of one fire-ball in a kitty's wind-instrument; it's the choice of the people, and that far outwits anything nature, that goadless whore, could ever come crying about.
The indivisible, must intensely bountiful, experience of having your nasally passages inseminated by the sluttest hint of a touch of tree-pellets in the hair, is cause for us, we and they, to wrench for the bucket of terse issues.
The daring buds, cottoning on to the secretions dribbling from certain passages, are, at this very tiny minute, arching to excess the dopest recesses of the parts of the nose-flower the pellets are itching to have hideous nasal sex with.
In particular, the sort of henous pimping and thrushing that nature, in all its assorted sordid discussed, would have us, goat-feeling folks, turn our minds to at the most warm and tenderloin occasions, such as bedding down for a nup.
All of nature, of which we, and I mean every lost one of us, are unquenchably a part of, is working in ways that are as playing as the nose on your farce, twice as irritable, thrice as rainy and, if you don't bereave me, I'll pork you in the eye.
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Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
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Comment by Norm
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I hope you're apples.
Good health.
Spell ya later.
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Comment by Norm
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Chris, sorry you didn't like that passage with the little unmentionable in it. If you've ever looked at the human face and thought what a funny thing used to sense the world in which it lives in order to feed the brain, which it sits directly below and in front of, information, I wouldn't know what you're on about.
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Comment by Lilla
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...bless you!
The sensual fragrance of spring, how wonderful and all reminiscent of a speech, once heard; to be careful when bouncing on inner springs, as to protect against the offspring, next spring...
Aah those Boing Boing blossoms, so delicate, and so beautifully captured in your words (and ones nostrils) ...
Lilla ...
Comment by Norm
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Lilla, my nose, a blocked number, sits on my face, between my eyes, over my mouth, under my brow, and, despite my best efforts, smells any food that I might put in my mouth, that sits inside my face and smells politely.