Streets

Bright bubbles. Such twirling crystalized hue. In Smokey paper eating wrappers. And dwelling not on a letter. Swelling in importance. Self importance. Ok then play circle bubbles in a packed out front room. Pong is pinging today and a pinny is not a vital asset in a crashed out kitchen chewing gum. Smoke then. Idolised ignorance infuriating inner ideologies. And a whiff waff of a small large woof. Grunting. With a chain. But not locked. Just roaming around. Oh look a decibel moaning in a dungeon. Over there. That street of rubbish moving in a technical bubble with the modernities of a fruit salad. Lipstick printed wobbling heifers with many calves in wheeled thrones. Sat silver on a gold train. After visiting the green building of financial aid and wisdom. No baked tray would ever be found or located in an ashtray oven. No effort no enthusiasm no encouragement just areas of erotic erogenous eggs eating. Eclipse no sun in a baked tart. And expect no wonder from existential belief structured souls who spawn to pray to giant voluminous leeches whose patterns print the most variant of super imprinted thoughts upon a shouting movement in busy over congested households. Circular is not a circuit nor a biscuit bouncing baby. Ok then. And no ha. No x either. For outermost opulence is derisive of inner chaos. This is the p y q reporting from concrete clouds-. On 89.0. Dilapidation Z.