Infinite Grocery Store Costume Party, Let’s Dance

Perhaps it’s the coffee in this registered criteria for a frying pan that’s so lovely, tasty with its swirl and pastry and of course just—yet even in its familiars we can hear in the shadows of formulation small droplets of what everyone already knows as a nightmare but we don’t want to look with our we-don’t-know-how to look with our muscles intact or with muscles too weak to make the difference between healthy working muscles and inoperative muscles and we go to the gym all the time now and work that muscle until it’s a bean sprout as tall as a fairy tale and when climbing it out of the roof-top of our seams, we hear in the faint wind a voice telling us to turn back but to no avail does it cross our path in the brain and we continually climb as if those were wind-chimes from the face of a father we all knew and cared for sometime, way back when, we all lived in the Shire, and while the king is dead and gone it’s obvious he hasn’t a ghost, no on here forgets the document of the constitution, whether it’s breathing or firmly stuck in the mud-of-war, we aren’t sure, too many parties with their oysters and potatoe soup debate whether elephants have ears or rooms which display pink colors when their chandelier truck footsteps—enter, and a truck door slams shut behind it and the people drive off with their circus in a toyboat and no one knows what an ocean is meanwhile a countdown until curfew is recited in the back of a drum-head tucked in the mouthhole of a cilia populated croissant roll keeping our receipts in place when we leave the grocery isle hand shake smiling with a zebra in the negative space of the hanging portrait of a drying and dust-filled land our language sways on the thread of a garbage cut, one made, before anyone reading this was born, yet the cob of those hours still haunts the chills of these times as a wrist-watch may walk in and point blame on everything we can’t see we don’t know nor have enough education to justify, high-schools in their teens sprout hormones continuous since middle school, but the placement for these cellular structures remain culturally indoctrinated by the spinning wheels of commercial cartoon sing-songer gasoline cap on, the tanks run fine, while love apparently always hurts and movies of as many neon as the sugar on a sprinkle in any season of the infinite untouched still-portrait of a radio continues on although their cardboard contains Christmas trees as a logo as a depiction when winter rolls in the roses remain intact contradict the notion of that much electricity as this sit in their tombs and smile beside the raspberries which were usually thought of bearing children later in the months to come, whatever a month was

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