From The Bureau Of Delectable Implosions

Newborn sirloin. Geodesic syllabus. Liquidated scratch fathom. Guidelines masticated into haiku banshee tongs.

Listen to the obloquy primrose. Carmine executive bluish from being obvious. Cardiovascular canister of stereophonic tackle.

Tacky geriatrics. Round twinges at the turpentine cinema. Corduroy gas. Tottering obstetrics under a utensil tree.

Eternal palm as pink as scrabble. Supposedly cubes. Blasted into curls. Change the infantry. Kitchen phenomena seeking ambulatory spinach.

Bolt gourd someday snowing. Position fricassee. Chlorophyll disciples in full vulgarity.

The shipwrecked house ruined my welcome and became a hot bucket of squalor.

Chlorinated bombard fission abruptly enclosed in the skull.

Complementary euphemisms perched on a rod of sticky generality.

Geometric gems goofy as coagulation.

Scrubby terrain with a crust of understanding.

I own nothing but a page of animals, some of which can jump through the light.

Others are more circular.

They belch colors that thrust themselves into the water.

Nowhere salami before any deductions create ovals in the mouth.

Niceties in a tub of protons. Remembrance system chattering thwarts. Crowbar twirling in commas. Carpentry blazing with Monday. A little sweet negligence from the bureau of delectable implosions. And a squab. And a squabble. And a waterway of capricious inclinations.