A company's primed eyes ----------------------- (with posed intuition) A company's primed eyes leads to all avenues, closed soft metal, illustrious straight edged revenue, lapses of colour splashed forth from two doors down, their shed. cromwell, whoever the hell he was. ignore savants who save ants, and those who rant in just their torn underwear, about file sharing, and whoever the hell he was. a company, their clock face, invested in relishing the future with no respect for employees or for their easel, splashed with paint, regarding the water butt, buffed with shoe shine, by those vacumming the spline of under employed mental arithmatic, the work of real men and women, is to scorn children, guardianship withering to dried up bunion roots. yes i am pleased with my new hat, it comes with an oversized pinch bearing, a radish-topped torpedo, neglected file sharing, torpedo file shelling, stoning, torpedo stones the crowds, to the sound of seven pounds of crow flesh being stung by nettles before a band of mincing ferrets playing drinking games while listening to some form of music unidentified by moist chocolate brownie cake. numbers numbers numbers, flowing into my mouth like stencils of the apocalypse, [delete]rant by numbers in the bustier of bruce[/delete] come the summer, heads up displays splay huddled field mice to the goads drunken football fans, stuttering like the glitched algorithms of new-age hipster-racists. new age dumpster glaciers cool the fellowship of religious mallard ducks operating clandestinely out in the marshes amongst the early morning mist and sun, which, in due course, the memory becomes coarse and calloused in meaning, and the triangulation of tranquility tipple-topples tiredly tending toward tatters and smatterings of smushy gush, with posed intuitions of nightly builds.