Within the mouths of penguins lies the absence of character.
Danger? cried the follicle:
foreign in its own wasteland,
an absence of vocal cues, AND,
for many, a precursor of the contagion of exile.
A brown expanse of corpses, weeping infinitely.
Central, a finite yet circular wall of hope, (crenellated, castled).
Within this falseness, a mirrored hall and a painting, gerund adverb.
The Painting: crooked armed puppet cries burning receipts regretfully.
An entropic *click*. The crystal hallway begins to melt,
oozing chromelike lumps and protuberances.
The shining surface is alive with hints of fire, and never drips.
The Painting: yellow caution signs stacked in a rusted bundle.
Sesomton steps?, even measures of his life, bringing him out of the desert.
Slime ducts filled with a slow misery of grave dust.
An errant tentacle passes unimpeded through hope, on his way to egress.
Dogton, the sky Behemoth, has sent him thus.
A roiling mass of passive, gritty tentacles,
Sesomton passes the portcullis, into this hall of deformity
Ponderous sagging roof reflects nothing but the scapegoat:
The Painting: a still life, vivacious, malevolent, sentient, apocryphal tome.
The Painting: Corrupted phoenix, senseless and immortally irascible.
The Painting: The awful disproportionate silhouette of the jacketed man.
The Painting: The purplish ocean stilled, a perfectly flat MiRrOr.
The Painting: A brown expanse of corpses, muttering..?
Sesomton steps, a life measure worth the sum of all that had come before.
As the eerily reflecting roof begins to drip, he passes into terra nova.
Behind him the hallway rains perfect blessed orbs of introversion.
Swiftly the whole melts into itself as a puddle. Hope burns merrily.
Sesomton stands, an ancient testament to devotion.
His limbs and tentacles alike spread solemnly, as a cross.
Everywhere the corpses speak, and then suddenly silence spreads.
Their dread incantation has summoned Dogton, occluding the moon totally.
Dogton, (the Great and Humble, occult mess of hearsay, Lord of Eldritch Reference)
hangs in midair, his multitudinous organs bobbing along his arachnid webs of connective tissue.
He falls from the grey sky, and brings the moon with. His ultimate collision causes a radial wave,
corpses as the backdrop to Sesomton’s cross. The wave encroaches, and yet the moment prior, caesura.
Time, he the most trivial, has inferred the meaningless inherent in Sesomton’s end.
A satirical symbol of the use of writers block in popular culture, he stares blankly at frozen Sesomton,
His features only visible in the viewing. He walks, perpendicular, and leaves behind fatuous infinity.
“Significance is nothing without my guiding hand bleeding dry the sky”, Time lectures.
Almost thought that was a terrible spelling stnank til I looked it up and sure enough that is a kind of wine grape.
But AHA Caesar salad is named after some mexican guy, not the emperor guy! There, I knew a thing. Now bake me some humidity.
But that Mexican guy never would’ve been named Caesar if not for the emperor guy! It’s salad immortality via the transitive property. You’re getting a toasted knife.
Within the mouths of penguins lies the absence of character.
Danger? cried the follicle:
foreign in its own wasteland,
an absence of vocal cues, AND,
for many, a precursor of the contagion of exile.
A brown expanse of corpses, weeping infinitely.
Central, a finite yet circular wall of hope, (crenellated, castled).
Within this falseness, a mirrored hall and a painting, gerund adverb.
The Painting: crooked armed puppet cries burning receipts regretfully.
An entropic *click*. The crystal hallway begins to melt,
oozing chromelike lumps and protuberances.
The shining surface is alive with hints of fire, and never drips.
The Painting: yellow caution signs stacked in a rusted bundle.
Sesomton steps?, even measures of his life, bringing him out of the desert.
Slime ducts filled with a slow misery of grave dust.
An errant tentacle passes unimpeded through hope, on his way to egress.
Dogton, the sky Behemoth, has sent him thus.
A roiling mass of passive, gritty tentacles,
Sesomton passes the portcullis, into this hall of deformity
Ponderous sagging roof reflects nothing but the scapegoat:
The Painting: a still life, vivacious, malevolent, sentient, apocryphal tome.
The Painting: Corrupted phoenix, senseless and immortally irascible.
The Painting: The awful disproportionate silhouette of the jacketed man.
The Painting: The purplish ocean stilled, a perfectly flat MiRrOr.
The Painting: A brown expanse of corpses, muttering..?
Sesomton steps, a life measure worth the sum of all that had come before.
As the eerily reflecting roof begins to drip, he passes into terra nova.
Behind him the hallway rains perfect blessed orbs of introversion.
Swiftly the whole melts into itself as a puddle. Hope burns merrily.
Sesomton stands, an ancient testament to devotion.
His limbs and tentacles alike spread solemnly, as a cross.
Everywhere the corpses speak, and then suddenly silence spreads.
Their dread incantation has summoned Dogton, occluding the moon totally.
Dogton, (the Great and Humble, occult mess of hearsay, Lord of Eldritch Reference)
hangs in midair, his multitudinous organs bobbing along his arachnid webs of connective tissue.
He falls from the grey sky, and brings the moon with. His ultimate collision causes a radial wave,
corpses as the backdrop to Sesomton’s cross. The wave encroaches, and yet the moment prior, caesura.
Time, he the most trivial, has inferred the meaningless inherent in Sesomton’s end.
A satirical symbol of the use of writers block in popular culture, he stares blankly at frozen Sesomton,
His features only visible in the viewing. He walks, perpendicular, and leaves behind fatuous infinity.
“Significance is nothing without my guiding hand bleeding dry the sky”, Time lectures.
Almost thought that was a terrible spelling stnank til I looked it up and sure enough that is a kind of wine grape.
But AHA Caesar salad is named after some mexican guy, not the emperor guy! There, I knew a thing. Now bake me some humidity.
But that Mexican guy never would’ve been named Caesar if not for the emperor guy! It’s salad immortality via the transitive property. You’re getting a toasted knife.
GandaPestile: “Gerund Adverb” would make a decent tattoo.
The recent suggested wine pairings have been excellent, irrespective of ironic tattooing.