Electrocute electrolyte electrolysis in the night; time for
a lime green shirt. Leave it unbuttoned and watch it giggle in a hideous way as
the wind brushes by. Flourishing liquorice will open the eyes and noses of the
living dead as they sunbathe in drinking establishments. These things power
through and power through again until the daytime asks for a couple of sugar
cubes to munch on. Mulch is always the answer in this case. Erasmus on an
aeroplane will play it like an airplane kangaroo. The beat box is not in fact a
box but a circle settled into the shape of a sandy beach. Blasphemy is like a
liquor for the soul, tawdry and tickly down the throat. Life is left red raw.
Watches are forgiven in this place. The dolly dances to see Erasmus on the
plane, sliding backwards. Lusty eggs are swallowed by onlookers as the token
falls from his right hand. Cobbles are a good place to land for the blooded and
beaten. I have pink shirts just for such an occasion: cupboards filled with
full stops, crammed with crawling thingies. Drain pipes. Drain pipes. Oh so
holy drain pipes. The daffodils grow out of the spout and grin in greenery.
Sweet sworn photosynthesis. The shoe laces of glaciers will eat the darkest
dingoes. Execution is everything to the final nibble, especially when the DVD
is running in loops. Crashing looms with silver edges will put all our wrongs
to right and written. Their enemies are the tombstones that reside at the
bottom of lonely ponds. International acclaim will save him proper. He has
hands that clap with folding hair on the knuckles. Shelves to be collected so
go get them. Grinding will grunt you down the wrong end of the back alley where
nobody goes these days, out of fear that someone with eleven eye patches will
rub them with rolled up socks. Ghosts have been glad of very little these past
few months, namely bears and fridge-freezers. The doctor of orthopaedics will
shoot down these renegade traitors with the help of his rolled-up newspaper.
Everyone else shall laugh from the sidelines. Formal wear is optional and
subject to fee. Versions of the same question have been passed through the
centuries: Why go into town at all? The answer is simple: to get some eggs and
drown their dribbles in a sea of cuddly love. Melt down the happiness and what
you have is a better way of thinking that doesn't leave you constipated and
consecrated. The case is closing and opening and opening and closing while you
breathe in the face of grander schemes. Drive your point home and pay it the
usual fare and then maybe go up to their place for a quick nightcap and the
promise of sexy quadruples. Pasting snakes is a task that must be done but,
when it is done, it inevitably leaves you rosy and hospitable. When you're next
seen, they will fill you with rocks.
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