Frontal plank fetish
Alright then how about this…
If a tree falls out of the frying pan onto a butterfly in the far East, at which door to Pandemonium is the inner child of my frontal lobe fetish plank chapping
yours, De Rosa
Wullie Blake says
You indeed pose me a task monsenor De Rosa.
If the butterfly from the east pops in to visit Bill gates before the president,how should we interpret this?
If the mandrake freefalls into the blueprints of a Sasquatch frying pan,mono-browed street plan giving birth to genie’s eggs as I unicycle through my neurosis .What then?
If nocturnal solitude becomes the murderer of illusion and no amount of hair gel can reverse the paradigm .Should pause be taken?
If I weep by candlelight do my thoughts become long and hairy,thereby reducing me to the status of an incontinent lycanthorpe?
Is the answer to the greatest question a dewdrop swallowing the ocean leaving a gaping silence filled not with words?…….or is it meat dominoes re-enacting the murder of Socrates through interpretive dance mid-transit to Elysian dog food?
Is it the square root of an unexpected hole in the head? or perhaps DNA of the soul measured with invisible teeth marks?
When Christ asked his disciples to drink his blood and eat his body .Was this a “late in the day” descent into cannibalism advocacy?,maybe he felt he had to top the water into wine feat by transubstantiating the wine and bread into Hannibal Lector’s fantasy banquet?..who knows?
I apologise for digressing, I am a fool prone to a wandering.Maybe the correct road to pandemonium is a Cartesian stretch bifurcating into two quantum governed optical field mice blessed with possibility and harnesses.Only time will tell.