Three Times Four

Three times four is a fragrant message to surly individuals with corduroy patterns on their egos and impediments marring their secret hearts.  They mind the store but only on a Saturday afternoon, never on a Sunday.  They live with Mellificent and her cursory pilgrims, the ones who follow and degrade the very ground they walk upon.
Shirking her duties is nothing new.  She shirks with impunity knowing full well that the posture cannot assert and the eagle lifts its wig to show us the new feathers underneath.
A small but pelting snowstorm winks at the frequent but fishtailing division. Who is this pestilent viper we love so well? Who is this torqued pillory, this orchid willow, this ill fronted text of a persimmon graphic?
Philosophy can be magnified but never multiplied.  Plead your case before the trim judge and the firm lawman.  You will bench the path and offer no remorse for guilt is only of the latter sort.  He is Hermione’s and you will bless him, if not his agnostic pie and wenches of the wilting branch.
Government, they say is forlorn but never truly foreign.  I have a small pouch full of cat stuff and peas. You can wiggle the pasty chartreuse theater ribbon and a single walking stick.  I will on the other hand eat the apple pie and stuff the larger of the two turkeys with something I think it will enjoy.
We walked up to the crevice and looked deep into it.
There it is, she said, the Well Being.
Sure enough at the bottom of the crevice was a well, and into it had crept the Well Being.
There should be no sophistry here. There should be no Madonna music here. There should be only one short recording, “More Songs About Buildings and Food” by Talking heads.  No other will be tolerated.
If you ache then you will be the aching one.  If you count your onions, you will have the fragrant finger.
I was keeping right as one does but the air got in the way. It was much heavier than average for in fact it was not air, but a wall. The wall was, perhaps, built of rocky roses and an interstitial highway. We must not rob this filched anchor. Be on the watch for atolls and simple sugars, feeling carefully along the rim making sure not to cut yourself on the sharp edge.
Should blood well around the blade, look at your skin to see if it is broken. Angle your putrid soul along the frequent hedge of paradise, where illusory birds and worthless saints peak out from under their camouflaged halos. I have one Daisy and she is unfinished but not needy or wanton.
You build small hills out of eggs and croutons.
Walter will not eat croutons so he will not climb these makeshift hills.
Have you see the illusion of the wurst and the belt of Orion? Have you loosed your workaholic leopard on the porch and laughed at the jokes your computer tells you?
I don’t ask for your four givens. I ask for your putty whelp and her ignorant paddle.  I ask for your ill gated pogrom and your featureless lagoon.  I see you for what you are and even so I deny and deny you.  I hear what you say and even so I plug my ears with strange new starches and a single octopus. You can dream of Ctulhu but you cannot drain the swamp.
The old ones are coming. Now look!  The old ones have arrived, fully at the time of their arrival.
There are no tautologies that are not reflections of cataloged art collections and in those collections there can be only one Pollock, as our fortune has shrunken and there is no fish in this shroud.  The dream that Smeagol had was one of Hobbits and Dragons and it did not end well.
Gandalf and Frodo, it is said, got blown off course after leaving the gray havens and ended up in New York City, just in time to watch the World Series.  Not understanding baseball, they assumed that the ball was the tiny head of a goblin and they cheered every time it was hit.  After the game, Gandalf determined that Frodo should be armed with a bat.  “It looks heavy, and far better for killing enemies than any knife I’ve ever seen.” But in fact, the bats proved to large and too heavy for poor Frodo.
Later that night, they searched for a safe place to sleep, but no place was available that did not smell like piss.
After the clean and well appointed digs at Rivendell, they were keenly disappointed, but still would not complain to their host.
Maria took pity on them.
“Come up to my place,” she said.  “I have a sofa and two recliners. You’ll be comfortable there, and it may be small and cramped but its clean.”
Gandalf was concerned that there might not be room enough for his wizard’s staff, but Maria assured him that it would fit quite comfortably in the living room closet.
Gandalf went along with them, muttering “What in the name of Gondor is a living room and why does it need a carpet?
I cannot explain to you this idea of snogging mountain lions. This idea of snogging mountain lions is beyond my ability to reason. It passes beyond the pale of my imagination.
Who took the cabinet to the capable church?
Who placed the goblet next to the chalice?
She who drank from the beaker will never hold the fine bone china
Hyacinth does not permit, and even as he dissents, Richard will not act openly.
This death must not rise above the tide.
Who is the behemoth on the berm?
Crystal is the behemoth.
Who is the behemoth on the sea?
Crysis is this behemoth on the sea.
Crowley was waiting for Regardie and they both held tight to their Tarots.  This wheel of fortune is better drawn than most. This Empress not so much.  But of all these cards, my preference is the King of Swords, for he carries a disk and a spear and he speaks loudly in a language I understand.
Speech cannot languish in the guise of a worshiper, it must instead come on the wings of a pear.
Multiply the anvil towards a foxglove and drink the tea of testes not.
Flit to the edge of a worsted catastrophe. This is only an apostrophe –
You look in  a mirror at the toad of destiny and you crawl over the orphan’s widow to see outside and notice if the weather has yet turned as the newsreader promised.

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