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Winged lapels
Stick it in me. It is in me. Is it in me. It is in
you. What is in me. A stick is in me. A stick is in you. Why is there a stick in
you. I will stick it in you. You will stick it in me. What is in me will be
stuck in you. It is in me. There is a stick in me. There is a stick in you.
There will be a stick in you, too. Why is there a stick in me. What is stuck in
you. What is stuck in me. What is stuck in me will be stuck in you. A stick is
stuck in me. What is a stick. There is something stuck in me. You are stuck in
me. I am stuck on you. A stick is stuck in you. What was in me is still in me.
It is still in me. It is not moving in you. I am stuck on moving in you. What is
sticking out of me is stuck on moving in you. We will all be stuck sooner or
later. A stick is moving in me. A stick is not yet moving in you. It is still
moving in me. It is not still. There is a sticky stick in me. Is the stick that
is in you sticky. No, there is no stick in me. There is no stick in me yet. Why
isn’t there a moving stick in you. What is stuck in me is still. What is stuck
in me is still not moving. Why is the stick unmoving in me. The sticky stick is
moving in me. Who are you to possess a sticky stick. Who am I to be possessed by
a sticky stick. There is not a sticky tick on me. There is no sticky stick in me
yet. Something is stuck in me. Something is sticking to me. The stickiness of
stillness is unmoving in me. Stick an unmoving stick in me. Stick me with the
dullness of stillness. There is no moving stillness in you. The moving stick is
not unlike a wand. The moving stick is very moving. The moving stick is not very
moving. The unmoving stick is not moving. The moving stick of stillness is very
moving. I am not easily moved by a unmoving stick. A stick is a stick. I am
stuck on you moving the stick in and out of me. May I stitch up the sticky
stick. Suck it up. Suck it in. Expel the stick forcefully.
The stick is turquoise. My hole is swallowing the
stick. A bundle of sticks are being licked. I am suckling a piston. My hole is
being disfigured. My tetchy rictus is tetched. Why is there lipstick on the
stick along the bone of night. A quartz stick is dissolving in my hole. My hoary
hole is raw with the details of twigs. My hole is swallowing the splendor of a
sleek stick. There is a dragonfly on the stick in the quagmire of my hole. The
decibels in my hole are being effaced. I am riveted by the seedpods in my hole.
My brassy hole is lopsided. Your trapezoidal impulses are beneath my breath. The
liquefied gutter is mute. The monochromatic circuits in the bivalves of your
hole are arrayed like knots of triggers, camouflaged objects, tractionless
scintillations. Your forepaw is thawing in my hole. What is lingering is riveted
in my hole. My hole is no longer my hole. The teetering scintillation is being
hoarded. The stick is being stifled. The stick is not knit. It is not a knit
knot. The stick is stilted in the thrusting gorge. The poplin or pique of the
stick is jabbing into the backstitches. The combustible elisions of the
seersucker are recoiling, chasms of pockmarks puckered in the flash hole goofily
secreting snug vetch. The dirndl is unkempt, a glut of guts in the punctured
peephole, the impact is bloated, the paunch is stilted, the back of the dickhead
is crinkled, the pyrotechnics of the potbelly rumba are torporific. Grommets for
eyebrows, sluggish frons quacking, flat aquatints, unstressed dislocations,
subdued impudence, cringle bruise, dubious tight bodice, flimsy deadline. --Bob BrueckL |
