The men are standing in a way that can be fashioned, like roses on pinstripes and backwards cars with glasses. They speak in a manner of red risen gentlemen and write to the letter like they had chaperones and medicine. The people of the manor teach like little roses on shades of grey. This is to say that they speak highly of little red champions or mortal symbols of an illogical and chaotic world.
This place is a spoken tone, sent rhyming and stepping like a soviet strike, crass like a drop jaw and speaking in tongues. The little man steps on his snide apple cart when the yellow suit of the mortal speaks lights and the right one. They do not laugh nor shape the little pink slips of fighting traditions that need to be spoken of. These are the shapes that leave men in their shadow for all that can be seen is a light in the attic.
These are the poems that are written by a man who seems very pure and a trifle bit crass. These are the people that speak to each morning with the same resentment they leave for their hats. The little red markings were crushed and spaced inward for the folk that had let the men mark their minds would tell only some the truth behind pedals as the marched and walked slowly away.
The first was a man name Co Shu King Said One, he was a short, fat, broad shouldered gent who spoke with a lisp and some kind of virtue. This letter was written in starry-eyed wonder in the middle of the night and read something like poetry. The greatness, he was told, lay in the eye of the reader. This shook Co Shu King to his core.
The man that he sat with was Poet San Gilbert, man not a saint he was named for. The man loved his palace, a cheap rented apartment, and the light that shone before the morn broke through the shadows. These cheap lifted southern pan-fried tomatoes we shook all the seeds out and drafted their parents. When we ate them, we ate them in pasta with meat. The kind didn’t matter, as it was free.
The peaceable sorts sent their open letter like little peg legged drafts that spoke highly of insult. These spectacled members of potential mishceivians were wrapped in a letter that needed to speak. There were three open caskets and none that saw light, for the shape of the world kept a man up at night. The creaking at the window was creeping rather softly and the shape of the morning to come was so bright. These little cracked roots that spell a rather soft dream came running and marching far away from these walls. The tapping tip or term that spoke like a matter was of foreign radicalism and steps from these walls.
These little managers had modern dilemmas and when these people spoke they did so like this:
“Red light is the answer.”
“Levo tamtre ston, lal hatt termat soplibes os tafe fardt ptos gouhbr kame ni.”
So the men were on their way to march to war, but not the sort that had any relevance or would have made the news. Their speak was of revolution, but they were without anything near a dilemma or column that could be used to spark such revolt. The minds that were careless and without adaptation saw the little spark that had the light redder than before. The man spoke too softly and could not let the others lead them in fighting for something they could not see. But some of the people let the higher spirit conduct them in such a way that the light was on in the attic for deceit.
The highway was littered with gold canes and perfect round stones that told that the people loved their land with a little light that shone from a round stick and sold those poor demons down the river like a settling part of some greater good. The final song came for a leader that spoke softly in rambling sentences with structure that silently haunted the mission that these people were on.
The light in the attic sung so perfectly wound, and the man in the hat, which was both yet was neither, spoke a little more in a way that the other could listen and wonder why have we not been rattled by stars and pages such as the other men have. Why did they watch and wait for people to march over and laugh when they told the spear the light that they knew they had, so the people could be settling in a hounds tooth cocktail that lit up their wanderlust for middle class workers and their children?
This was the question that had no reasonable prequel and shone like a mission that walked over their wands. These were the reasonable people who liked them and those that could speak like they wanted to hear. Why could they write it like such a drafted supposition or bitter tasteless coffee that spoke like they had waves? For these were the people that wondered rather slowly and never passed judgment of those that they hate.
He wrote the piece like a wandering tribe and used every word that he could to describe a hopeless bit of nonsense that doesn’t make and sense.
And it followed and sounded something like this: