Procto Nation

Check me your dimensions in the procto-department, was the slip that fell out the fortune-teller back-slot, procto-national proctology, they called it, the up-propping, what else, our great flag flung rearmost to foremost, the prater-national look, we are what lies beneath the skin and we normalised it, flap-flappers of the littler poles say, each merely a different variant of the fash-regatta, the death-drive flash fashers, see them in the eyes, their cum-what-may national leaders, dead set, far-age death squad door knockers come turn them who just turned in for the night and said, praise be, the belly uppers, our great flag enmired in the, let’s pin it in the floaters, the sight-sayers, who see the D-kirk and its rotten-out, and parade below the whatever of the better kept fop-foppers who know which way to cut the, and say then again, the eyelids peeled back to the silly look, look there, these patrons of the sandwich shop moment, cum-well after the trolly regatta where well-dressed crabs eat rot-fed breakers and grit boxes, the George-regarding public conveniences of the lower, bedraggled, forgot-not-what when told a better story, looking east but round our westernmost point, people housed periphery-like to be recalled for the bleating guns, and make all other, the kindlier, seem benignly disposed in their coffee-slop offices, to the gleeters, the lower-fash bigoters of this lately cum Tom-shop, trog-fash flapper-post posters all about who declare again wot, and from the alignments of doggy bag privet-hedge pushers and posers, puppy braiders, who have their own up and down fuckerby say-so’s to say, so bend down still and listen, hear these island resonances of the auscultated gut.