THE CONFLICT OF MAKING_ RHETORIC 

 

The injection of the needle, similarly recoils truth, intervenes and draws blood.  This man is bleeding.  There is a surgeon on the way, the nurse says we must operate against the surgeon’s will, and we are at a state of pandemonium.  A body lies dead, it is too late.  Our bodies will one day die from age beyond intravenous injection and hallucinating amorphisms.

 

Crystals, on the other hand lead us to a hand-held destination making cause for relief to pocket energy, an upside down reflection of a totem image, holding onto destiny and all that prevails with it.  That is not to say a crystal may refute to break melancholy, in some respects it insights fields of the same to ion out carpe dium.  Never the less the retribution makes up for the malaise of affirmed sameness in its delivery of exactly that, chastising mellow drama through its correct state of earthly wealth.

 

Marmalade takes on sweetness’s of an orange of Valencian origin to make a crystal seem nothing but a prosaic yearn towards rock.  Its taste on toasted buttered sourdough with corrective nuts and seeds, makes it unfathomably erudite.  This esoteric combination of toast and preserved fruit through spaghetti peel in transparent jar, full lid on tight it makes the hand friction of removing the steel lid all the more satisfying.

 

The needle of marmalade is a crystalline interjection of poetry, but less be it alive, for the death of grave, in a gravy source of added supplementary associations with a stifling head ache to feel no pain but the distraction of Mesopotamian livelihoods.  Opening up a Lapus Lazli conjoined Indian mine in Afghanistan leaves us only grace for the totem, looks good, real good, but it is the Poppy that kills the state of mind to love all and beyond in the rifling that goes on behind closed doors.

 

Army troops run into desert storm to make peace with child, pleasure to proud, for burning down their neighborhood was not really required.  Investment in them once parched, drained and fried, leaves them helpless but to listen.  Now we have the vindictive adored leader to propel them up the leader board looking at a famous take-over of UN peace rights once tried to pick a fight with a lesser morsal in order to Blair right the passage of time and constantly apologise for that fetching blue sight that money makes war, war makes money, so sorry you couldn’t be there for action as I laughed my socks off at the final bomb blasting missile from a Navy ship which really had me in stitches as I’ve never held a gun before, just a proletariat of formal public education.

 

This replete state of history puts America on the map, handing out toffee, not as good as ours.  In dice sit six numbers, in cards sit 54 cards, two jokers started it, they’re not playing, just sat down talking about the abstention of half the population led by positive thinkers for they’re the ones laughing not me, now for my party political motivation speech. . . .

 

Where does conflict invigorate the soul, on burning the sand, blowing the glass, or chilling the final piece into solidity.  Is our water really clean, as we find chained fish, frothy seas, chlorine distilleries.  Is the sand from good rock, is the fire – ‘coal’ hot enough.  Flaming our structure is the invigoration of soul to conflict.  The blow job comes after one is ready to be put upon by a porn courtesan in control allowing the relief of the cold bath later to find your head and feet shivering from the ecstatic cherry of a cactus.

 

If we are not used up, using is the planets most famous patronage, keep pushing and it might bite back, it should feel spectacular.  Nicole is writing this down.  When we make love we go for use towards sharing use, now we see the motivation.  Just killed that thing inside your head, for sharing use becomes love beyond doubt in its effluent richness for sound to provide defiance to be stronger in civilized harmony.  That is not to say whilst he is in the kitchen rubbing up some strawberries she is not fantasising about using or being used, there is part of our pejorative make-up.  Madness’s expound.

 

Dependancy is the out of state plate, travelling without moving, causing unsettled religiosity.  Dependancy on God, dependency on life, dependency on parents and Filofax.  When the diary comes out it is a god-send to fill it out and cast a spell on one’s affluence in trickery for a social life is not unknown to the shy just coffee rights display beans to take home.

 

Massive mass make heed of the conflict in one another’s mind.  For ill-health putting up with diligence to keep using those eye drops, pleasure to see you sir, just don’t egg my bacon I need you.  We all live diametrically evolved into four walls and corrective cornering to push our barriers before they disease us.  Is this survival or boredom of Marmalade to pick up.

 

 

Health

 

If we were not all ill what would the world be like?

 

If there were no pharmaceuticals what would the world be like?

 

Once caught by the system one caves into diagnoses because that’s all you can be as a statistic, they have your number on a board to file into the section on glaucoma bringing you as number 198,076 to be deemed a write off to normality that they invent to make you feel smaller.  That or you are a product of a lack of survival?

 

Where does survival come into mediocrity because heretically we must bust our hearts into being and create mastery to impress like a magician in order to know Derren is just trickery into Spiritism.  ‘Yo you got a problem, check out my hook,’ while my doctor revolves you.  Devolution cannot really be an escape card that normality is acceptance, so propense to be provocatively yourself.   If def jam was better than your marmalade, don’t hurry to have both, have both, have more and more.

 

An abundance of cornucopia will indulge, but may not necessarily satisfy the dream, so mediate the dream once blasted by our jury of cantankerous pleasant witnesses, for there is an I in meta.

 

Where does love lie in a doctor’s surgery.  On Capital FM faintly booming from the stand up radio, aerial, reaching to Oriel for confidence in the proclaim of the doctor’s themselves, highly evolved for their true religiosity, and Blair right laughers at a lack of independence of the patient, when they themselves keep claiming interdependence on their insurance and if it is not there, then the insurance brokers are just laughing at making £198,076, in a few share falling moments on their statistic number.

 

And so Corbyn sits at home dreaming of a Utopian palm tree in every tropical pop garden to invigorate us with the World’s credence in (not plurality) but paradise, if only for the birds.

 

 

Trust

 

If it were not for drug taking there would be love in the air.  If not for cars there would be pure blue skies.

 

Some of us like our smog to fight off at a moment’s notice starting a war with our neighbors, well BT said, no BT’s friend said, ‘don’t believe in the Lord, and start a war’, and that was the only touching thing that happened to one despite eating Marmalade for breakfast off the back of the spoon.  So war prevails in the trusting times that a catalyst from one's burning, burning others will cast a spell for one only to relinquish in others judgement from a sagging face when (and one promises) one will give up, when family life is the only & last option.

 

Likewise stifling will batter trust, but we are still dreaming of those strawberries.  So stifle, make madness out of glad tidings.  Entrust yourself to have a party when one doesn’t need to.  Trust yourself to forget.  If your health is no better in the still moments of utter professionalism in not harming, but charming the world into your mind then you will have never lived.

 

To trabeate is more my style if not for wanting to put someone down.  The Roman’s only know efficiency, we knew it by squares.  A look of indignation will help to sell it, and trust your mind that the balance of a few will make all the originality in the world to pleasantly walk on by, if not call up Theresa and ask her for a bank loan to get your virtual £1000 model off the ground and into cottage industry suburbia ready for the Swiss cheese soufflé making my mouth drawl at the party.  Love the photo of the Queen’s coronation, if only my chicken was spiced.

 

 

Defence

 

Tracery is not defence in the martyrdom of localised egalitarian royalty as we all have become, just no jewelled crown to take home after the visit.  Whilst craft makes one doubt ship, plane, tank, and gun if they cannot solve my statistical head ache, then where will I go in order to drink from the Orwellian well. 

 

This Universal water tastes sour of course, licked with promises of actually an unwaxed lemon coloured lemon.  Looking a bit verigated and pale in these strip lights, they keep using in the Tate, to keep us supermarketing our way round the art world, if only Rothko was for sale, an excuse to go for the trabeated gallery house, with a tomato.

 

The defence mode knows no bounds in our hysterical, twist of historionics.  Corollaceous demands on my time to be under the ocean not over it, because you indite me to live under your bounds, your found object, not listening are we really?

 

Water is our next defence, and if we can make it a subject of ‘rhetoric peel’©, it will be all the more fruitier for its true divergent complexity revealed like the world’s science.

 

 

Deployment

 

If we deploy any more conflicts with lazy booted, shaved headed stallions we are in danger of becoming heterogeneous in our magniloquence to run this world, when taking part is all we have as numbers.  The government must listen to its people.  Government is us, we are government.  Like Marmalade is jam, jam is government.  The collation of sequential trailing public civilians cheering on the paper of go to war if not command me will take heed of the sharing use of this planet.

 

When the soldier does arrive, he is not welcome, he is not happy, just psyched and they don’t need the injection other than steroids to keep breathing in the helicopters, dress of dust as they rise and fall through deployment.

 

If America thinks war is conflict because they are at conflict with themselves why is distrust pushing them on.  Word to the west, a west of peace loving victims, but I’ll probably leave them behind if not reach for my ideals.  This exodus in trust will allow me to live as an example to more biblical, and non-biblical lost souls.  If army is needed, when really there is a propensity to avoid democracy through democracy, will we ever all live, bound by the city and its nihilism.

 

‘Use in sharing will bring us ‘rhetorical peel’, to find ourselves as real people not in conflict but a bit cleverer than the rest.’