The Twisted Bear Is Having Fun

The twisted bear is having fun. The twisted bear is eating a bowl of conversation. The cool magnet is an admonition. But the twisted bear pays no mind. The twisted bear thinks perforation is an unfulfilled abstraction. We find evidence of this in thundershowers. The shovel is overflowing with horses. The curb is beaded with noodles. I stand here with a can of varnished gelatin wondering if I can handle the cab of hems and their dispositions without a proper work visa. I shall seek the wisdom of doors. I shall seek the wisdom of chairs. I shall seek the wisdom of the twisted bear. The twisted bear is having fun. The twisted bear is a palace of quintessence and claw. The tamarind stands nearby with a scorpion’s temperament and a small area affirming similarities among the rocks. The peach is tangled in loops of eccentric ontology. Clouds have effectively remedied office culture and left us dripping with radar sugar and boomerang gum. If you lean in and listen closely you can hear the fish swimming in my incision. What would you call it? I’d call it a wang dang doodle and pack my bags and head out to the open sea. I don’t want to see you go but if you’re going to go please go now. I have things to do. I must blow. I’m a breeze lugging a crate of monastery knots. My dream has roots in Africa. The fin is a vintage shape but no genital is completely solitary. Every beak and mouth is connected to a stomach by way of an esophagus, and it is there that things happen. Swirls curl into compliments and language is the serum of rostrums and a romance burning with deviations. Aberrations. Like the twisted bear. Like an engorged preposition. Let me roll it to you. The twisted bear is having fun.