An Unrepentant Stalin
From Plastic Tub
The dough-bellied protaganist of Stimes Addisson's 1932 play Lascaux Fitted the unrepentant Stalin moved through historical vignettes with such speed and expert acrobatic, the calories expended drove the actor commissioned for the role into bear-like soily graves, auto-graphed nearly for all by season's end. A trophy was devised by comrades, levied about through appropriate jittery-bill flu, eventually, we have loved each other, dreadfully. And here we arrive. There is no kidding about, very little fucking around. No savage ball-bombs. Only a pocket of loose bullets -- called out by scripture! Is that your immense poetry I see before me -- or, by proxy, do you agree with meeting us all?
HAX! The bedliner won't take the marking of a ball-point pen, so I get up. Up, I'm compelled to move across. This proves tricky. Dayus spent in the anemai of vertices; I dont' model with edges. Mostly polys and points. Don't talk to me about the holy nimrods of Five, or Seven, Pythagoras is so fucking overrated I don't know where to start. For a man so profoundly post-rock, I'm having problems with pattern. And so it goes -- but only with finishing moves, shock core combos strafing across the magenta! Pure gray 256, baby, count my lazy pigment! and more! LOL!
Easily four hours spent in selection. Daily!
Here is everything you want, in socks. By socks I mean ruthless punching.
So went the first steps of the little girl, left-mouse click. Alt+CTL right mouse, the pig-tails go completely agape. Never a strand with three points, she shrugged. After shrugging, she resumed her prior demenaor. Camera fucking One. A hard shadow, so hard in fact, the lens did bend like dirty red headed girls (after blogging).
Extrapolation
Dave Payne and Steve Adkins clearly delineate a kind of Maginot. While we have arranged for pant-cloths to be exchanged I've recieved word of a discomfited bit -- wheedling, basically. We, the dirty Pollock Irishmen, are on the other side, getting classical. And by classical I mean largely naked and by that meaning without fiery automobiles of Purpose -- apelike in our wonder, our glee at living! Hairs commend a soul to light, it would seem. But doubts malinger. Like shadows all pumped up. Or doubts, they linger like mexican yard-workers swindling an old Protestant Woman. Stymy my advance they seem to ask, but her eyeballs from the window -- on nakedays! -- it's pure syrup of sadness, real televisual melod-rama, painful, like seeing dead animal, all agut, but eyes dark coal reflective. The yage yonder, however, composed of shirt-skins, tend to feel their way around the root. Plasticine porters indeed!
