Fragmentation Grenades

Two figures clad in black, approaching White France.  All the loops of former wires trailing from speckled
shell of dark coats, a pale vitality expelled from their snow frosted breath, faces masked by scarves.

Worn nuisances with a side saddle filled with worms, a dark pouch covered with lightning's red sheen
upon the pillow that rested only cowards who wanted to murder.

Haven upon a green porch light.

Black black tormented across the moon

Furthermore, it is a standard injunction to phrase the language in the most beautiful possibility of worlds.

One must.  One mast.  Scarred and flea bitten by hen pecked.

We no longer dance, you see.

A probability curve is heretical across even a graph page made ludicrous by rulers that measure inches instead
of centimeters.

One must chirp.  Two masts and a sandpiper writer.

Sampler at Denny's costs an arm, har. har. har.

You could have given me examples of rusted blood, woven into those serial killer novels planned and tuned according
to carberator noise.  A gaff, strung up with metallic fishing line and preserved.

PT Barnum was a private in a war.

A yes...A yes (he slithered).

ELIZABETH, what a vulgarity lopped into a zoetroppe and paged from nastersiums kept in crystal funnel.

Hell has no freeway.  Ironic, or fitting?  Both.

Ensign lies about ownership, can no longer buy or sell, har. har. har.

"I'm wondering where he is.  Based on the time, he is in one location or in several at once."

Delirium tremens, shaky substrate of plant rot decanted into the lily-livered apportioning of those
who are scared of happiness.  "Happiness is a bit faggy, yeah?"