beneath the frippery of the new & old nigger pew it was written, no, not exactly written but designed, the white lyrics of his machete. when the wishful despot unveiled the timepiece by inhaling by thimblefuls a petunia pickle bottle full of other bad blood, the voting motivation was again seen imprinted on the solid phalanx of the thingamabobs.
the replay provoked the spectators to look for the same motivation elsewhere in History which was now becoming a mattress bursting into guffaws. he looked pleased, he could now just raise his yellow eyes to undo his hairstyle. now it was just a matter of guess, or glass? where else that candid swastika could be traced? on the back of the newly earned tortoise shell necklace dangling between his purple areolae? sitting on the verge of the cleft of his hips his clergy was singing hallelujah.
finally imbeciles ignited more imbeciles & the fireball ran wildly all over the flesh of the flibbertigibbet seeking that little motor which had been perceived as a poetry or pogrom of edge & edict, a sop to sonnets of lych-gate, an aching fiasco of blue-eyed yearns, a soft-pedal healing of luminary rivers of rifles … the motor was wrought, a drop of pure blood coated the crinkle flowering of kaykaykay crowing gloriously as much in his dovetailed blueprints of gratuitous violence as in his warm soup of bluff serving to contain the subversive promise of nation & narration.