chancery

Virile:
Morning of the day dew dawned and happening rain bantered with the chain gang aas it slopped through the window panes on the floor.
Clang:
And so the man sang, of pain, anger, trying tales of woe, bravissimo, belissimas, and the night so sweet.
"Hum quietly so your mother can paint":
and the people in glass houses stared out wistful smiles, biles rent up pent up in the vase that sat dainitly perched in search of a vague trace of days. They sat on stones they dare not throw through, though the people below call for them to rise.
Cycles in Paul Newman:
Chaste moments passby unused racing grave chasing, I feel death's warm embrace creeping up on me, I have to shield off her advances for now. But when my time comes I promise to show her a gentlemanly time wink wink that's right I sleep with the fishes.
History's blowhole:
A sinkhole in time to book passage far and into the future star-wheeling planet hunting, gathering wild oats on the oak trees of lava-filled boilerplate landscapes. I smell the cold 4K breeze filling out a too never too late pension plan to retire in youth amidst other lifeforms. I have days left in fantasy to be fulfilled.
I leave the line in a half-trance with the full chance that it bleeds into my waking moments.
Fuck you Tom Brokaw. I love you Tom Brokaw.