An A A perjure is a milieu with a lisp (when dogs do mathematics what is it that they do?), number but a john, a trick that wets the bed then sells the blanket back to you. Metaphors is smart coz they only sleeps at night. A dreams is too, though not quite as bright, the target being the opposite of sight. I mean, how is it logic always leaning to the right? Like, if by taxing two hundred people you could double the income of two billion, why would you not? Because they would be spiritually compromised? Because they would no longer understand the value of a brick? And if you donít, is that insider trading? So which particular hypocrisy is more socially deleterious, the solipsist on credit or the jective thief? Facts are criminally insane. (Goods and services. Goods and services distribute facts. To do this they use money, which is neither good nor service nor fact, but rather an inelegant form of irony. Irony was elected as the preferred medium because it is the cheapest form of reproduction. Inelegance was preferred because it would seem to discourage agreement. The joke of course was the invention of price. (The noun is the distraction with a name. It betrays both price and fact. And argues for residuals like pretty rationals, a cute pandering, the you of use...)) On jealousy: Yes a stubbed toe has truth potential, but is it art? (Ode to the lust for betrayal (objects is what flirts a lot):) Logic is necessarily out of phase with itís object. Otherwise it too would be a vulnerably adequate sensation. Like if thereís nothing kitschier than price, why would you charge credit to the poor? Coz you can. There is no or in more, fool, just too (my sum th dubba tongue): An we didn like whatsits, what happen an we did? And why would you sume truth be interesting, itís not even psychological (psychology being professionally uninterested in truth), electricity just phenomenology with like a switch, a not too subtle nag, my price (but as an amateur sport) the alibi (the stats they is ideal): The future is a euphemism for the uneven distribution of the present, a mannered optics. Like if logic had a thumb could it fuck? Meaning is the neurotic form of sad, a picnic scab data cola on a roll. So what does reason look like when Iím not there, two bucks? An object is what understands the world: In the third race it picks It Intends to win and By All Means to place. There was once a prig of ends, an ontologically autistic common sense, Last seen rubbernecking the skulky musts, the awkward dim imperative of hybrid pasts, a tech as set as best as left it can, an am in red, stressed out: Ain no viral file of sticky ímunes what whims around is gonna next me then with the cajoling of a self, Iís bet. Truth knows everything except itself. In this way it demonstrates itís preferred response, a travestied guilt to garnish what it callously let out. Like what would cash know, it doesnít pay the rent. (The mind (a method for training answers to assigned probs) the watchdog quiz what wants to borrow subjects, volunteers collateral, and quits. In this sense is it right. The deja suicide. So which part of Then is less sanctimonious, the It?) But the philistines loves proof, the cure tourist who set up shop dispensing locution and hygiene. I mean, the economy is only more interesting than itís victim. (The harakiri debt cadaver, the counting corpse, the tautology let loose in abattoir, the The rhetorical, the catharsis, the technique, the humiliation of its with biscuits, the do-it-yourself example on a string, the vanity, stigmata bartered for a picture of a noun, the joke (pathetic is wonít fit back in):) As night is the parasite of day does logic fall on fact optimist, the adolescent of abstract, one those short fingered soliloquies: So how do you know youíre tell the truth? Not all prices (arguments for identity (subjection, economic economics)) are informers: The id, a figment clit with other itches always pays the same, a noun on spec. Allergic. To the ívent (that weíd called an event strike prior to (the market celebrates itís own redundancy (itís jealous of itís hostage)) buying up, werenít widely known), a rumour with no view. (If face saving only affords but one ID a time, how many hands it take to then break eveí? Eíen more n four? Corporate law (to rent identity from the ad you gotta first be licensced as a cop (to colonise the íxchange rate you donít wanna use no shop))): Bent Nth, exempt as objects, culpable for what a profile could yet do, a predicate. With intent. A two three. With credit. On the ones. Poor portrait porn, the bank, the data all selfed up, a model theft, a feedback with a job, the patriot, as though the capacity to be a subject were innate, no bottle blonde right described as ístructions for the eating of a mac (cash is always one pun in arrears), what contracts out appreciation of the ad: Too bad. The art that so laments the failure then of art is thus found out. It redeems. The potted watch we hocked before. íFore what? Before. Picture privacy, the vendorís property, the second guess that ends in E, thereís nowt anonymous íbout loss, the victim sells ID. And what is it íbout ídentití makes it look like choice? (Choice of course the very means by which it is record, the blah blah paranoid (pepsi means just rhetorical for coke (It is just a slapstick me with legs, a got with handle by the throat.))) Strung up by tongue the polly were, a name without no coz: A fart no just some decídent fantasy of shit, but it a bastard farce tht (pimp) fads the dag tht reckons dogs the perfec drug bucolic, a secret lastic pack narrítive less effect, and like any fects it know itís place, a convulsion of expects, a subtle fat, a at that facts a lot finds fence: The line is pissed. Narrative is the dull crime. A mechanical best sceptic, beat. Cause, the pseudo event, a ventriloquil with laces up the bum, waits. And coz fact witness, so canít inform. Waiter sans queue. Like mimic use decision like makeup uses glass, thus do simile the it. Cash (the trick to anthropomorphising of the past) of course the cheap hypnotic interestingly seldom used as bluff, a flint lock grammar which description itís own parody (words a mediated self hypnosis) smirk. I mean, what part of lost is object? If common sense so spectacularly sincere, how french knows then what to say? Or, if castrati whistle, can they yodel, throw a voice? What came first, stereo or radio? An echo from a rope. The it inhibited, the vowel the instruction manual the very bowels of speech (under my um umbilical tongue lies pill) induced (only coz it water does the body float) synthetic yes (the deaf is mad), an algebra of sighs (a wife not only discount than a clone but can also change it mind). Poignant, petty, the it prosthetic tick (stastistics, the technology of event (coz time now bunches it get then warm, a pic that limps (dreams but glossolabia with lisp, a secretary that bids (coz transparent makes no sense) a medium of chips))). (If the mouth the site where you do massage then what you hear, what then the did? A seance of fumbled surrogates and tit? Shit.) The self, one those muscular stupidities that humiliates the subject (stupidity otherwise one of the better mannered strategies for getting by), a decadence or context, an arsewipe with a past, and why would one context be enough when the hole is the technique? Any medium is only of the dead (the phone a part of speech), a slapstick switch or patient necro narco ego with a box. So what is phone for fact? Den tist? Lipsync the fuckin cough (the hardest part chinese is the not being ílowed to breath) shoving phoneme into pants, the suck, the dumb bastard blah bra from the grave. Intention, the second bite at narrative, lipstick mnemonic (punishment is that form of normalisation for which we ípply): As bows and knots is machines for to distribute tricks, does economics distribute agency (it also means you donít gotta like a neighbour). Any rest jus jail bait. Like existence is what form of knowledge? I mean to risk knowledge itís a sticky business for memory, no crack of ístraction, but itís base. And while the cynic makes an instrument of the question, not eíen the epileptic rub of ínalogies will get it off. (Like while Eve remains the first scientist of choice, the fall the first experience, a chronic known (the only there there is a name, a high leverage forfeit on itís own.)) (Ashamed at the castration of the market by dull accounts of stuff (my thumb so numb at doing numbers it must be up me bum), she blushed, an if-only with a proxy, a library of better odds.) Spared the price of the informer, the right results (Which part of icing is the double cross?) in the (dob) armchair of the crime. I spy with my little pie the one apple that was lost, a maths of doing time: Itís dumb was something you could bank, a stubborn so in lieu: Either both or, with the contradiction, none, the accidental hinge, the sum. I mean if the plural sanctions violence, grammar has no opportunity to prove (On the both vanity of words (thereís nowt so dumb as love)): Modesty, cosmetic blindspot, conjugates some more: A sadist thatís only ever asking for it, the mean submissive cringe on speed, the very fuckin bitch. Which part of the ímergency do you tuck in? The bet the test? On which part is the tech? (The only part of a word thatís used is past, a normalised cause (the vocabulary of once (intention the vicarious definition of the same (the intention to postpone)) is thus parafuckinsitic), a collapsed name. And how paranoid the snitch? A limp with lisp? A badge? But the subject a functional word order and so therefore knows the pause (to dance, to do syntax with a broom (to hesitate is greek for dust (facts only look like language for the deaf))) that facts is lazy shit, a fictive fat that floats, fetish on a rope, though íless you is semantic some sentence never know the what that hit. To imitate agreement (the fetish of help, jealous then of what was said) (that time the only saleable skill was (double D doubt) the prac that flatters then itself, a cunning mocked up automatic, the grammar of doing something else. So fuckin factile were the hearse it got implied mechanicals, a dull an grump, a grudge, the object of the thrust though any can or likely box íld be known to do (the dupe so succumbs to ignorance of a self by getting by, runs a ípetítive shudder through the choir, a sullen ticularly non existent quote). But who ever said the self effect was on? Dear John. I mean itís not like it was other than a probe. Though not all it is fix. An accompanies anxiety, the decorative empty set, the fat map statement, the haunt that blinks, that old singularity itch, the slip. A surveillance, of what in english do, the plum mouth law of irony, moods the butch sentiment, the Huh? aside. And stuff just interrupts, the crime of then, the bounce, as though narrative enough. To jeopardise. My both the host. A stolen bunch of commas and poxy stops that if they meant anything at all íld probably just clock y. (Being a site of violence, I had to like wait around for to them take my statement. I mean how real is that? Glued to the fuckin act. As though the state only dress this way coz it canít afford the cash. Talk about contaminate, laying fuckin claim, the profit that donít sublimate ainít but one at all, but ties itís quanta to some old decision camp and plots.) My box the loss. A diagnose, nuanced stigma, confesses to the same cept more: One, agreement is evidence, two. And, frankly, better. To cure the object of itís theft. A knee deep client, a seance of better odds, it blabs (For the subject to talk itíd first have to be the subject and then íld speak (this proves the subject be hysteric) (Depression is a technique of the non subject thatís guilty of itís friends, a cathartic dross, the case of medium with intent, tragic pap all classified, the picture perfect rent)): Something is not something to do something about, language is a source of shame, and greedy so for symptoms it lines up from the right: Facts not only unconscious, but theyís prudes. And sick. An it, as though dose upped with behaviour and not just some vagrant coke, although prose was sposed be therapeutic, what with statistics in itís pack, the gentle form of profit. And the risk (immune) analysis of shit? A crock (art, the polite attempt at the subject (criticism, the polite attempt at the past), a neurotic cause, a pathologised desire of law) with enough victims up the arse to pick the tune: So when did depressed get to be the form of knowledge? An ob ject? Within the first throes of pragmatics? A pre that, a bad subject, some vicarious compensation for being an effect? I mean sorry darl but you donít look too much like a cause. That facts suffer incest (and that a coz theyís facts) donít yet dissolve the transference one would seek before the requiring of itís suicide (itís only lack adapts, the past a blank insurance gainst what we know to be the case). (Trying to narrate on to words their little ironies, their quirks, their all too ready rhymes (rhymes like rhymes, that way they know that theyíre in love), a plump intímate bruise, privations:) I is no more deduceable than any othí the masochist facts, so though need may deed be protect, it be so in all instances cept mine (paranoia is for name brand positivists: Given a couple E bombs an some vectors the decision space (letís say procurement and structural adjustment both, for sake of argument), a pimping of below Wall street, above Wall street and something else (diagnose the perp by target) (I mean a bunch of stuff that you can charge), but ego being the obsessive by-product of some dud spasí, a kitsch agency, a name is just collateral damage like tubes out of dead X rays wrapped with a little two-fer bang, a privately unspeakable (a sadist is she who knows who she is when she leaves the room), a request thatís jealous of itís own defeat: That contexts stutter one anotherís hardly news, an abstrac that, a um-if-this-It-is-less-metaphor-do-it-less-repeat? A predictive network loads up the diff, as if. Malicious value, the other sus, the artificial witness marketing, the you glue of ídapts thít wait, the opportunist niche, the wait, the cliche wait, the wait, the committing psychological speriments on the self (things being particularly ideal and therefore is no argument (while the nameís but attempt to ífer the same)): An enigma likes is donuts a sweet redeem (price being the alchemy of objects, their pretty distances, a holy chutzpah riff (ode to the price of irony: Reliable the fuckin dishes, fuck!): And the state of emergency? Salvaged by a slapstick stupefaction, a can of hemorrhaging meants (the epileptic fact (an injury capable of language)), guilt in some sort of remission, a compensates: The symptomatising then starts (taxonomies) facts as contracts (on selling proof to flu): You, you shit, you. Ifín logic not paranoid, it then still be ígic? A simile? Six Itís sell three Thatís, what then is the price? Which riff (this xample always inefficient)? Like if objects were truth preserving they wouldnít then do names. I mean names is an uninteresting solution (circular reasoning don not require the circular-thing-box) and while narrative is no altruist, the same for ain said for metaphor: From The to A is the whole history there of crime, like never so proud than the ëscuse it sell the help: In explanation, which part is the excuse, a logorrhea (Dear quaint, if god so self conscious, eveí time she blush - the object is just ain it sense, buys it ignorance and shoves it up like at some suppository) that fails to translate? A some dumb stuff wrapped up (a free convenience) with ílucigens? A name but just itís quote, a spose of getting matí tí say (like contextís dream) what on itís mind. The only difficulty though ís in thought (that raggy light which seperates the object from itís use), the witness the epiphany of what was said. (Romance, being one of the irony exercises (of which knowledge the first heresy), a plain angel (two is not the prophecy of three, just itís profit (four fours is metaphor)) rancid seesaw surrogate jane that jealousies itself into puddled corners and bad facts. But knowledge is no special case and therefore the mere parody of reason, a dolly difference, so it fetishes the fit, a full transcendent economism, it. I mean english defines the unexpressed, a false object for the rendering of ëscuse meí on the trot (the history of ëno wayí is easily wrung, attitude on ice, standing tongue in hand in office of Iím-alright-or-whatís-the-bet-a-nounís-a-lousy-omen-off-the-bench. That It remains a fad is half its charm, the rest is on the bank, cadaver smug, (that grammar no use cept you is a cop (I is one them haunts put out to let (logic, the crediting of objects with rights to rent)) a gizmo aphasia where Yes is just the messenger (itís being evidence donít make it plausible) of set (three of course blasphemes by being then not two, the really in the act.)) (As the unconscious of assorted facts, I queue, and possessed by those small echoes shrewd up a cure: Coz. Lots. (There being no psychology of one, no motive so with fries, the postivist cuts costs, the invention of equivalence, and buys (as nameís just a stylish prefix with possibles on top, it runs (true crime) the flag each time we look like being shot.)))) Prose, the dull argument gainst chance, the pointed it gainst change, then vites us at (liability and the pay scale of intent) Tommy Jefferson style manual with map attached. To plagiarise the use the pastís been put, Iíd sell mine back and doubt the too much at at all, the cringeing fucking sook, the hack. Luck is what form of decadence, a currency? In the art of the state, how now brown cow, is the cows then less than prove ideal? Cash we know is elocute when the lots is rent, so left or right foot down defines like like the black box placebo centre (all actions is production centres) the event: 1. An institution is a failed technology (stuff, the nostalgia of labour, coagulates as cost (memory has bureaucrats and most of its is nouns (taxonomies of united states give hypocrisy a lousy name))): 2. The strategy of Yes has no logistics. Therefore biscuits. I mean, whatís the hybrid of translation, a too dilute of soon? And just as distraction engineers perspective do we hollow out the scab, a flat fetish mine put out to grass, the pimp that signs that itís been had: Dear sarge, Iíd like to organise the same, redundancy in lieu of more, though the agency you find in And (thinking but the shopping list confessed) aint there (you remains a standard so long as you ain known) again in Or, the passive of. (Politics, art without a net, used to consist of waiting til we organised some time instead (rhyme is a better scapegoat than irony coz it votes, though you donít gotta be no Too to know itís the box what wash the soap.)) And ransom? Kitsch? That reason has a cold? A bunch of protocol (heirarchy is all proof) with that damn alias on the case, the fuckin vector apologist. Iíd though take the mistake for the miss, the cheapest part, the evidence, the opera of inertia and the shot: Watch the pathos, watch it spoil. Though not quite yet, coz yet is the prosthesis for what none of which is right. And while use is not necessarily a form of criticism, a beneficiary is. (The ricochet: And while the market lends nomadism to the object it sure no library trickle down (ownership remains the drab mnemonic, a paraphernaliac, a wife, a memory as bait.)) The tool, a mutant superstition, an attempt at the unconscious, blackmails what it canít intend (I mean not all hosts actually is) and though genre has a cynic as itís cop, the corset has itís hunch (my um the medium stranded in some box (you call that one opportunity cost), the logo and itís crotch (lunch just latent when you extrapolate the boss), news, the industrialisation of the past, the manufacture then of loss and the compromise of ice). And as the patient is the gendered form of speriment, itís reductionist expense, the patenting of whatís a hedge fund technology of less. To pollute then by numbering helps the object get to sleep (to sell me my attention as though she were a bank, a manic, complains the currency as obsolete): she sat down he sat down you sit here we stand up when we stand up if it is here we do we do not know I go over here why did she do it? how did it get there? which one is it? are there any there? as to the rest, you will have to try together with some one else and a book and a dictionary of words. you can use a string to tie it up. after tying them together they will be more useful. , And coz the object the epitaph of use (use is what heals itself, a popular) makes taste (the sucker bait of proof) the moody paste you thought it is, itís on: Bored. Clumsy. The secret is itís best aspect, hi-camp for cure, doing therapy on what now called words, an effete flattered pessimis in suspen The surplus of objectivity is not an agent (a shopping epic (inflation is the present the recipient bestows, the manners of the passive crime (the logic that sells context to the poor denies the subject itís revenge, the gift of debt)), a guest, as vulnerable as evidence, the ready intimate of time well spent. And though form but the consoling giggling of matter, no way it (too close to pose) it enough to be malicious, poor thing, trying to doss down in the plot (with of course the intent of better odds) offends: On cue: Being guilt the possibility, shot, as ends