The ochre rust that beats us to the arrival of a bell--for no new bell is worth ringing
--frosts the wall, and corrodes the flanging curve.
Sumerians--or some other intelligent society must have seen,
The shape needs to hurry and precede the sound,
And so, swiftly, was it conceived to plunge from the hoist, at a swerve,
Then scatter by the skirting ground.
Who could foster a better or more cracked idea than a bell:
I have a certain kind of abuse I like to touch,
And when I'm lost my ears
Near the unoccupied bourse, the broke foretell,
Which might just as easily be the bell of the bell.
Insidious: The Last Key - Dagnabbit, the unthinkable has happened. They finally made an INSIDIOUS installment that yours truly has zero gumption to rally behind. We must be trapped ...
16 hours ago