Not Sure It Will Be Now

Slow and sluggishly seeping across the opaque coffee piece being a minor choice mirror, this only producing soft movements,
whereas I like loud and brash and tat tat tat sounds and for the bang against the brittle I am punching on the chopped sliced wood of this bastard, rotten article of expression, the colours being black and white,
though a lilac is mourning its previous yellow home over the middle passage of the grain
followed by a mighty fuck off blue from the
sweet blueberries now sucking into the silk rug: I remember when it was sticky
bubblegum that was tangy before I spat it on the carpet: this is going to be cataclysmic to brush off.