I dream of the blonde beast

I dream of the blonde beast with the uncivil procedure, his scaled stains spilling onto his hands and feet between the arcing pillars of an inept and stumbling veterinary surgeon who worked with shadowy and surgical drinks to bring about turning a dog into a ventriloquist Trojan horse until the summer bristled like a hedgehog, pattering on the pendulous lamplit breasts hanging into the tapestries that flake and fall like tired almonds into the golden pool of cheddar and soft-boiled maggots, so delicious that they cried out for more in the late night through an open window where 6,500 interviews were conducted weekly to offer agency to animals and young ladies who have literally nothing better to do.

Merl, Patrick, Paul, Wendy