Ambling through the bramble patch is like licking the eye patch of a dead queen. Let them scurry through the undergrowth as they bowl for suds and twigs and lightning rods. I blame the parents. I blame those salamanders of South France. The stamp says differently. They are the bosses of their low-hanging bibs; where the bricks are stones and the stones are something everybody wants. Where the kleptomaniacs wonder who is on after the next guy. Where they dream of silver-lined pockets and the dull trinkets that reside inside. Splash pages of glory and glory's tribunal. Then again Cobcroft could be the end of the left-handed masses. Nobody asks crows for trustworthy answers. They tell in accents, indecipherable and dull. Crush me in squawks, my lovely. Green is the myth of brown, shared among the blackened night. Hayley eats the hay and I bend over forwards then back again then elsewhere. Beat them softly and they will shout out your hopes. Dustmen are here to kill you, spike the trash above their heads and wish for the best. Their hands are pronounced in shattered leaves. Their fingers are eaten for the teeth's sake. My, my, my. What pretty clouds of nothing burnt and rolled in fiery shit. Travesty for transvestites. Let's leave before the gang war ensues and I lose my handkerchief. Print me and putt me. I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't exist in the present state of things. I am matter and you are the lonely opposite that wishes me luck in future endeavours. What a lovely goodbye to nobody's swatch. Swarm upon the dustmen before they turn draconian. You see that turnstile and they don't. They can't see beneath their chins. Chuck them under and watch them writhe across the tennis court. Blandness will be the end of the afternoon of lively kisses. Ghosts are out for love and will take it from you when you are sleeping with the West border. No. Not again. Not again twice. Quite enough cuddles from the dawn. The tickets are clicking and they are North of the plane again. Bite down incessantly and watch them chew cottages through the middle. Putting the receiver down will do nothing for the dustmen's temperament. Muck is on the window and that's not their job. Who's job is it again? We know but we may never meet them. The plank is falling. Hope for damp and hope for tribal ties. The paint is grey and no-one is eating. Run to the wheel and hope for change. I feel coins in my wellies. You will receive them in the mail intact, God willing. Blasphemy is for the dead grass. Let us know when it regurgitates and tells me something I don't know. The gross-out is coming and the Gods are among the slime. The Gods are good at being Godly but not at being Goodly. I will fill them with ink and hope they stay the course for a while. The spittoon is for the lovelies.
Eat my porridge and face the demons of Burgundy. I am the poseur and the poser and the position is closed. You are my left nipple and my right nipple and the good space in between. The hairs are feeling up my mouth and I won't last long enough to test them with a functioning calculator. Sponge the question and the graft will grift. Gristle is my way forward and you aren't allowed to deny me what I so obviously hear. The roses are seeding and the typeface is glowing. See my pretty paper clip chain and watch as I garrotte you with it. The baby will be there so I'll leave a blindfold out in case they want it. It's nice to feel nylon so close to your soul. The eyes are all squinting now as I pass out among the daffodils. I've spent an entire afternoon painting them true gold and I fear my time may have just been wasted. You'll tell me as if you were Michael in the daytime. The mountain's are clawing: I staple its paws to the table of the Gods. Conch shell printer parties are there if you can handle them. Pinkie is a tie between the Glaswegian and the nepotism. I'm suffering from lead poisoning and you can't tell me anymore than I need to know. Memory is decent enough, like retching on the back of a post-it note. Kittens are watching from the pencil pot, plotting a way to open my leg and throw me to Hades from the inside out. Place mats in a palace is a copacetic notion. Yanks will have it and I won't let you dance with them so you can snatch it from between their yellowing teeth. Wood is a wig that is falling from an aeroplane so fast that no-one will want to touch it without a curling stick. Nibbles and sasquatches have come to declare their undying hunger for lemon pies taped to the backs of live goats. Creamy paper is not so creamy as a night in the circles of my backyard. Neil is near to guide me to Heaven because Heaven is not a black place but a slate grey place which belongs to the lapel of good leather jackets. Crust implants are the wisest investment if you are a burning idiot who forgot his lathe in someone's fine idea of a jolly good time. The nape of the neck is not in fact a neck but a place to store your record collection, but only if pristine is just not good enough. Throw a punch and watch it fall before the failing light of my severest headache. Sever the times ahead and watch your land dribble melted plastic all over the begonias. Yates and my wives are having it off behind the feather duster but that's alright because they can't touch me without a permit from the cyclical letterhead. Tie the bow, end the bow and bow before the bounty of ancient grape fruit.
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