31/03/2013 - THE RIB CAGE BEING ALL YOU CAN SEE

                The rib cage being all you can see, I am stabilising as fast as I can. Fortitude is my catalyst, greenery my staple. The writhing cables are setting the mood and being transparent overall. Run by me and you’ll find no heat signature, rush along without a coat or a care. Sterilising is like my diet these days, weightless and filled with coffee-shaped Romans. So many nude triumphs, it’s like static responsibility and a low-cut top spinning out of your bold hands. The spectacles drop off and wear tripod delights on surly afternoons as I gather your jewellery from the top floor of the basement. It’s my experiment involving lunch deals and toilet breaks and the good old US of A. It’s not over long nor is it a turning chair that describes quantum probability. The pole is bleeding all over my product placement. It’s fun. It’s rebellion.

            Recruits come from all over and demand my ties and stethoscope games. Talk about my perversions and watch the wrongness drape over my forgotten shoulder pads. The subject is with the doctor, a protein that won’t glow without minute rings. Something is not right about the entire scenario but then the stats are jumping unnecessarily without healthy teeth. Carts and horses go to the simpleton and get kicked before the signals return with their septic branches. Don’t you die on me or I’ll go into shock without so much as a by your leave. Jesus, am I? Surely it didn’t work this month of my career. He doesn’t seem to know; he just uses the whisk and pours it all over himself. It makes me sick of triumph.

            The fingers require the latex more than I do, more than I am willing to take. I’m only hearkening to a premium ideal of cohesion that A and B and C. I’m a turbulent primate when it comes to such matters; I throw up all over the marksman. Fuck the days with vicious needles and empty eyelids or simply choose the naughty magazine watching business. I have headphones, I have a perturbed sense of humour that thanks the rope pulley for its dedication to a zip line. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, don’t make promises you can’t see are letting you down. The boarded-up windows are of a fleshy consistency that scream and eat bacon. Constant vigilance and swinging by the lab is a best effort by any monkey’s standards. No keys are books nor glasses or grindstones. It’s like shit that doesn’t wash away and don’t even think about it.

            Who is going to know without the mirror before us? Who will watch the skin crawl and weep ahead of time? How now? Since when? Straw colours in her hair. She may have been a patient and she may have worn gold out of season. Heavy menacing is like Quattro embalming: it spins the soul like a neck muscle in the spring era. It wishes me to kiss down the zebra and away.

30/03/2013 - CONFLICT FIGHTS

            Conflict fights a constant battle with contemplation. It's a freakish, beleaguered belief that reinforces masculine values and drip dries the cone hair. Spawn of portent solitude and most schoolteachers that refuse the grinding ukulele. He was a protagonist in a ten-gallon hat and a bloated waistline and he rode out to sickly split ends. Why can't you be evil like I taught you? The guillotine fucks up the protagonist's serene music solo. Watch out, she's gonna do something which requires minimal effort and special effects. Maybe tomorrow he'll survive and actually get round to doing something. That's a balm if I ever did see one.

            Pleasure wrote the stripes into the long and unforgiving pathway but we all saw that coming, let's be honest. It's the protagonist who has to deal with the synthesizer music and the incessant need to be chirpy out of respect for plot contrivances. It contradicts everything I never believed in. It leaves me half of something I wouldn't even pay for on a glittering September Thursday. I thought about giving the protagonist a name but then that would just encourage Erasmus to subtly tuck his own in there. He has vanity like a robe as loose flecks. I shall leave a legacy but it shall not begin with 'e' or end with 'saw'. Everybody went there, all my forbears and respected wives and children, so I doubt there's much to see outside of a whimpering rosebud.

            When's it the best time to go home? When the babies are wriggling with the clock hands and pontificating about early learning screws that do it all entirely wrong with a different end of the screwdriver. I'm thinking that the protagonist's voice is going to get all screechy and gay when I put in the part about DNA swabs or the rushing of saints to tidy up disregard caused by my own handiwork. It's a life lesson that dresses itself in Christmas wrapping paper.

            Back at the hideout, we have lost the current cake and replaced it with a Nordic actor who doesn't wear cowboy hats without a handlebar moustache. He'll be bastard for wardrobe design to deal with but at least he'll look the part, I'll be damned if he doesn't. The protagonist must look terrible and he'll have to acquire shaving skills that do not incorporate barbers and razors. Maybe I'll introduce this Nordic actor to my machete collection.

            The day rescinds my plea for togetherness and feeds me Japanese animation instead. It distracts me but I always come out on top and demand a recount for the sake of the big-eyed, bug-eyed masses. Mr. Thank comes back to me and tells me that I don't even have a coat of arms, so I buy one and shove it up his rocket ship and set fire to the lamination. They'll yearn for these days and beg for the childish surprises I kept tucked away for a later date. It's good to be a thirsty dagger. Don't you-

29/03/2013 - CRUSTY FORKS DO NOT FRATERNISE

Crusty forks do not fraternise with the bossa nova sisters. Flints unwind like someone rushing to the interesting plateau of nonessential rectories. Clapping with frameless glasses bothers me, it irks me something rotten. I’d hope you’d agree but you’ve seen nothing during your time here. Wrong-doing is a service and a service that has paid you well. Lemonade has shaven eyebrows and will break the priest’s sensibilities with little more than a single pelvic thrust. It’s a knighthood of a sort, to visionaries mostly. The illusion is not in the perception but in the physical trust of shadow ministers. Foreseeing the fox’s downfall is a job in itself, like a baby on a pale whimpering face.  Moorish clandestine tomatoes are tainting the alcohol in my burly breath that irks me too. Things are just piling on today so I’ll try and keep things short and sensual. It takes a cat to be sufficiently responsible for a dire situation, none of the other four-legged furry things do much else than drop hats on tomfoolery-shaped feet. The bleed is coming or maybe I’m seeing courtyards again. Watch your crushed vice for trouble in the form of a women crossing oceans. It binds the mind and makes one only think of early morning excitement and plans that will never work out on the day trip itself.

            It’s a transistor of returning, a box in the whirlpool of an invitation to bonnets. I certainly didn’t get to witness the catching up but at least there are dominoes to be hawks. Bronze knots the transistor and rewinds the precipitation without the whole evaporation business sticking its dirty wooden nose in. Sugar over my destitute suit and watch it slide off the shoulders, as practiced. Fingernails keep crutches for darling starlings that go to their wit’s end and never stop the woe. Hymns and frisking with certitude are what’s left on the plane as it descends into paganism. It’s beginning to look a lot like speaker phones melting under brusque intolerance. It rides waves.

            That churlish Rasputin loses friendliness artfully and directly beneath the sun. I am different and she is never going to land on the buzz. It’s the day that cleans your pageantry and scolds the kettle with the colour of her magnificent skin. It’s a treatment, a treatment so soothing at a lavatory that you forget the flush. How the logging gains on elbow pads. Opaque like a light switch that lies uselessly in the background, unsatisfactory like the speech of yesterday. Goodbye to phone calls, goodbye to intonation of the spell.

            Don’t you know the way my face is going? Accusatory spectacles specialise in shutters and shudders and musk rats that insult the intuition. Resentment is an alcoholic idealism, bowling with ceramic diametric. Shalom to the time it takes to let alone a good will’s waking. Alter wine with thankfully minimal vengeance, it may lose its yeasty flavour but at least the thunder knows satisfaction. It’s doubtful I shall ever write again.

28/03/2013 - DEFIANCE IS STABILITY

Defiance is stability and standards are weltering like rosebuds on a sanctimonious relationship. It's going down and the syndrome won't give respite to anyone outside of the hairy fisted clan. The badlands are filing up with creaky necks and porous beauty that leave me wet and respected. Smart batches of dancing rooftops will lead the heartstrings astray, as if you were about to listen to those bitches in accounting. It all filters through the one way system that is grocery shopping. Beetroots are ideal within the correct parameters and the bedding rocks whilst you rebel against them. It's ruining the ecosphere and making the chalk wake up in fits of hysterics. Howl at the suffering with broken teardrops and watch the sundry swastikas peel away with tepid rebounds. It's a might that can't be spoken or a proof of diagonal eyelids. Stitches are like see-through desires, nowhere to be seen on a fleshy coloured bath tub. It's like an old man clicking at the prospect of another day's witchcraft. Make the deliveries and people shall drape hellos all over your ribbed van.

            It's friendship that makes the tail wag and drop at the sight of an ancient ruin. The respectable beaker rips a shudder in the time-space continuum with nothing but a saving grace. Bellow like a rabid child and you will see who is believed to be best at bowling, we all know that the answer is coloured green. Tinted green. Tainted green. Verdant disappointment is thankfully sparing when it comes down to short weekends. Thank the good man before he leaves your petals in a state of disrepair and frugal imitation. This is not a lie nor is it a truth for the better part of thinking about it.

            Whisk away the top and stunt the trap before the cosmology becomes its own gigantic principle without a theorist or a windshield to guide it. Let's not have another apocalypse of sauces, shall we? No matter what your orientation this planet of ours is not for piling on top of attic space. The dust is fraudulent, will lead you to the corner of some vile and brooding rainbow thought. To see past the glasses is to travel to thirty mountains without paying a dime or a pound. The dork shall shatter the geek and bring forth the dweeb with little other than a wise guy. It's a town for cities, this place; it's a place for worship. The day is running out to the shops in order to steal all the precious furniture and to take names for some nefarious project. It's ring leader is a hysterical womb that shanks the elbow storm and transmogrifies it into a plate of locus locusts.

            You do it, I can't go on without seeing the hoods fall from a trampoline. It's my pleasure to see you without your pockets in, it merely increases my foul-mouthed distribution. Compliments are for the desperado and his kin, leave it in the heart of sand dunes and just walk away.

27/03/2013 - DON'T TOUCH THE HYPOCHONDRIAC

            Don't touch the hypochondriac, he's undergoing hydrotherapy and is not to be disturbed. This is a serious warning, one with bells and winks and goosy handshakes. Take your trouble elsewhere before I trounce you with my leftover sandwich baton, it's crammed full of truth. I'm on planet leave, you see and have a lot of time on my hands for trouncing. If only the juxtaposition was quite as fitting as my departure had been smooth, then we might actually be getting somewhere on this report. Yes, the report is in this Friday and your pushing daisies enough as it is. The King shall not be pleased, the Queen will halt your progress into her bed chamber. It's a big turn-off to use the wrong kind of ink on yellowing paper. I lost my senses that way, now I can't smell or orgasm without severe aid. It's like indigo on the wallpaper, it doesn't really protrude lightly nor does it lend itself to artful projects. I am the soul of this investigation and you are turning out to be the prime elevation of my diverse interrogation. Shifting in chairs shall not work while we're trapped in this sand dune of opportunity. It's plain to see that beginnings have no triumph to them these days. It takes a wholesale reference to get key stages off the hook and down the hatch before the Queen has chance to spread her legs. She's getting very good at that, by the way. The King has got this metal device he brings out for long parties.

            I'm digressing. I do not want you anywhere near that hypochondriac, not while he's bathing in the translucent glow of childhood verse. It's sweet to watch him question existence like that again, on the potty and down the gyroscope. Like I said to the mountain girls, it gives me hope in a world that only knows about meat delicacies. The jokes on you when it comes down to the tits and bits of lifestyle, racial slurs are in fact a way to appropriate horny harems. The christening is beginning soon enough and I am fresh out of paper clip designs, you'll need to produce the essential details before we go in. The drowning sounds will provide a nice background music as we show off our calves and all their statistics. Bottoms up to be branded by Wet Nurse Matilda. We don't get to call her Sister anymore, not since the picnic and the drawl of the man sitting next to her. Fucker stole our basket full of goodies. Mindless midfield ethics are the only thing keeping him down so we better make use of your volatile intrusiveness and sic the bastard with logic. If it's made me tired then it's bound to drop him like some stone anvil. To borrow a phrase, the candle is not a toy for the cretins but a wish on a stick, so let's go get this over with. Who knows what the King will say.

26/03/2013 - YOU MOOSE IN RUTTING SEASON

            You moose in rutting season are a disgrace to your colour wash. Microscopic receptacles are on hand to sing thrice about perfume harems My whim is rather attractive to some and about to hover over your cold wet whetstone. How the hands flail and lo the rich-handed cometh in evergreens. The solitude of apathetic honks keep me alive at night in Australian tethers. Meticulous whistles keep me aflame in a floating haystack. Imitation is the last vestige of incubation. The displays come crashing forward.

            Successful in Lime, GSOH, drinks when forgotten by twelve-year-olds and small husbandry specialists: this is you without skates on. Throaty chuckles all round, in lycra or septicaemia. Hopeless Gunners carry a ruff and the leather trouser pox. Every extremity is in use despite the blathering dance. Not a nut of a chance in a showcase detraction. Dominant males steal treasures feverishly and drop bongos like fiery emblems at the feet of her underhanded remains. Let's all go to the Spectacular Conference together in her name, dressed in her fancy sleeves and matching hems. White fungus bides its time beneath the bower with dirty satins from Smelly Saturn. Such is the miracle of youthful birds in bloom. Ride about in your mother's spacecraft and see it for yourself. Maybe filter it down for your oversensitive neighbours, make that your weekly promise, it's an arrangement with a wench in a suit. Mother forbid your vigour.

            Majority ruthlessness wields baseball bats when it really should be conducting naps in some blue ass back alley. Ode to a Chin Filament plays gently for our disillusioned mannequins. Making off with such buzz saws demands a treachery from a senior partnership. Be bound for trucks and poofters, wailing and gnashing teeth. This is now a dispute over Sickly Symbolism and its turtleneck cousin Historicism. It is normal to be radical underneath vicious killers, according to the priestly sums at least. Tedious ties wreck medication asunder but spare litigation and subdued protocol. The dead have no gratitude they have few aspirations outside of the sofa. Privacy comes to the brave but only through passable doorways. Battalions of prestige and rehabilitation all about the worthy beds, clamber up and ring the mounds about the past. It's like a bladed instrument manipulated to wind up the trigger of romance. Such a pallid craft with motion sensors and chicken steaks to break the assumed backs. Ireland roars with wrinkled brows while we have no idea how they have done it.

            Doppelgangers have scarce taste for the Unholy Smokehouse. I inherited it from my maternal grandparents who were drunk in their boxers at the time. Pull them the wrong way and you'll receive some serving suggestions too. It's warm at the top due to the salted seagulls. They had my dearest so I harpooned their atmosphere straight through the Adam's apple. Like that! That's it for the lawsuit and all its undersea squinting. Go and find the rightoleft and leftoright alongside an empty boardwalk. It's damaging to our doing away with retirement plans.

25/03/2013 - RIGHT ONE, JIMMY

            Right one, Jimmy. Hang them from the rooftop, mountaintop and fucking drive a pile through her middle. Manticore myopia will trust the frigate of sadness and wind it up with various knock, knock jocks. Atomic Trilogy Jesus Wept and Throwaway Retribution. I am the graduating legend of wishful wanking. Peel off the decanter and thrust a knife into the belly of the coffee pot. Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to make an aria of your spleen and sing the resounding mangled screeches. Pay checks like turtles are one in a thousand wrinkles of the pageant of a lurking life. Stutter was out of the door and down the stairs, into your soul without cent between them. How climactic, eh, Mistress Sausage? Cords of frosty thunder garments, stricken from the record of heavenly facile septic sex. Running primordial heels into the flesh of wooded shafts or, as a third of the Japanese would call it, a verse of interdimensional smell. Clustered diamonds, cluttered drams, shuttered drawbridges. How the piece collapses into forged documents like racist termites on a summer's melon.

            I'm going home. I'm going home. I'm going to debunk. I'm going to debunk. I'm gonna fish. I'm gonna fish. I refuse to refuse to refuse to refute to refuse to subscribe to Artful Beatrice. Most collectables in a window are edible provided you wear it in the sun for forty eight hours and fling it at the magazine stand three hundred and thirty four times. Idiocy will not be attributed to humour or the structural analysis of our humbled drunkard ways. Snide my hairs into loose fittings on a nasal equality between friendly nation that do not produce toupees for the taps of fortune. Jamborees oh jamborees oh renal legality oh jamboree oh playful thriller rings! Thank me again on Tuesday and I shall embarrass your uncle when I see him next. Lanky gross negligent jasper girth signed borough  Swahili revolution for our sweetest Sebastian.

            Without a doubt, without a cartridge, without a bratwurst, without a grog cannon, without my, my, my, my, my, my, my strangers of bunny ears. Treasure the 1980s with a feint of reflexive crudity, lightning strikes with light ferocity and will not change its arc until the scarf follows course. Operate cautiously or not at all. That is not an option for darts shaped like utopian conkers, not now I haven't changed the sign. Deal with the cruise in a walking halo and its crabby writhing sticker. Co-operative foreground busybody darling: that is now your new predilection. Keep away the false legs, the prosthetic tomorrows, the branded premium. Keep the kelp.

            The monstrosity of helmets is a springboard for banjo twanging and repetitive mystery rungs. Home is best left behind for a wayward like you. Heed this, respect that, go with earthly preambles. This is the beaten one simply from the way it doesn't walk. It's like rape and dough and Sumerian trials only with more fun squeezed in between. Trust my respect.

24/03/2013 - CLAWING OUR WAY BACK OUT

Clawing our way back out of the pit that is Sunday on the brig. It’s like an overhanging dress with a low-hanging hem, delicious to some but repugnant to others. Now I am a simple man with horrendous tastes and an indefatigable tendency to negate them with fine furnishings but even I know that this outcome of yours is stupid. Home is for hope is for the new only and never go changing that or else. Timber is cumbersome to the eleven Sons of Goldfish Erikson. Splatter and scatter and reimburse the well-wishers for their key faucets. Leave behind our speccy babies or drown their dummies in a heavy laden lake. It’s a home for pestilence and rectangular excuses, not a nice play to spend your Thursday parties. Coats and eye patches make one an evil collared gentleman. Whistles are through the blinds and down the stairs and glaring through a veil before the governor’s ventilation system. Warn me like Errol Flynn or just drop me in Detroit. Batteries oh batteries, how the batteries crush the spirit. Play off against the prostitute’s beaten hairdryer.  Never mind, never mind, nevertheless the decking continues with its frisking duties or some such thingy.

Separate the bag from the handle and split the lip with sensible deviations and various other monstrosities. How the lines converge and reduce the spit ball to wasted ammo. Our lips move with the times and trundle down ladders with trumpeting whirls. Poisonous sheepskin rattles the flickering hair, golden like the backside of a truant officer in season. Hunt the broad strokes with a hammer or restrain the lofty elevator. Turning away from nibbles or quartz defiance if you’d prefer to be sent to the chins for punishment. Hang nails go off like gorillas in the rocky terrains of consideration.

Infect the stubble or speak judiciously like our obtuse cousin from Southampton. Merging the handcuffs into sideburns will only result in the numeracy of pill-popping. You knew like a liar in the heat of a desk lamp, how heady is the sound of the skies colliding with collusion. Exit the barrels and shake out the dust bunnies with a flick of your underwear. She’s trouble; oh she’s troublesome in crazy shit like screwed-up vernacular. Cowboys will attend and mistrust the easy-bake ovens that clutter the pathway to longtimecoming. It was the right moment that the patterns explored the extent of their nature. Fear is a potent liquorice and weaves a wholesome fruition out of lice and detritus. Behind the trucks, the zombies lie and mark their territory with ambling teeth on reckless coffins. Bleed out for the sake of a nation. Become burly! Oh no, not the insidious September! Protect me from the period that bespeaks all pitfalls. You are a chump; I am something quieter and drunk in the daylight. The dynamite has a collar but only on prom night, scouting for apple orchards leading to sleeves and raised brows. Hats, caps and tree branches, knit like chummy headstones.

23/03/2013 - DOES THE BOMB HURT THEM?

                Does the bomb hurt them? Does it suck quite like the talking fish and all its lessons of distaste? Why? September is a day in the liar's calendar. He generally spends three hours of it drinking a bottle of lemonade spiked with haemorrhoid cream. I don't think they'll hurt me or you but they might nip that guy a bit. It's a coked-out experience but we'll forgive the liar all his trespasses and all those who comprehend a damnable situation. He rides trains in the hopes that he'll meet her again and steal her sandwich. The jewels will reside and abide but he'll chew out the specific glimmers like gherkins or rosary beads. More so the factoids we freed from your basement are calling charges on you for neglectful masturbation. How do you plead? How do you pee these days? Mostly to the underside, am I correct? Obviously.  I blame the doctor for all his medication and lack of feeling.

            Whatever we go to will depend entirely upon the sound of your wicked laughter. It's eerie how you twiddle your moustache and punch the Windy Christ like he was so much spuds in a hayseed sack. Productivity and electrocutions are the liar's facets these days, that and the bomb. The headband is straight out of Carlisle and demands to be worn on weekdays that begin with 'N'. It's business as usual otherwise. It's business as usual anyway. It's really, really pathetic when you think about the light switch. It's a non-disc. Velocity drops here and leaves behind its traffic report. So much for the beady eye. Poorly paced lined paper grapples with elementary thought as if it were nothing more than a drunken merry-go round. IdoIdoIdoIdoIdo like the sabre as if it were a friend. As if. Good.

            Tag your it. The liar has a tapestry read to wrap you in, he'll eat you with chips and gravy that bends the other way. He takes it in from a barfly and concludes the noir mark is unidentifiable in this resolution of hyperspace. Artisans and squabbles follow afterwards and bebop along with jazz music honking in the background. I'm sorry, I don't identify with you, I improvise. Squidgy friars is the world's dominant population, according to the liar. We know he's telling the truth because he hasn't fallen over yet. His tripwire is yet to activate and when it does we'll know the answers like we know the shape of his chin.

            Density oh density. The liar has mistreated you. He commonly defies laws of physics but never leaves them by the roadside like he did with you. We shall see him strung up for what he has done, we shall see him with a sock in his mouth and clothes peg along his eyebrow. It's punishment enough for a man who abides by common practice and never seeks to rape the universe with his thought process. Rest assured the train is coming and it will strike with precision. Trust the madness.

22/03/2013 - REFINED IRKSOME

Refined irksome is a potent dumdum. His trousers flailed at the prospect of fitted fabric and hemp temples. He cured the handsome of their raspy injuns and great beasts that know the Valium Child. The livers and the livery and the muttering of childish tomorrow, how speedy, how speedy. His footstep quivers behind the numbered wings of helium and hosannas yet again. How the fever spreads with fiery vacuums or decompressed hunts. Drills of my orange question or the square tepid that know of the dais and the silverfish. He knocks on them all like a similar attribute to my documentation. It's rather sweet actually, in a drinkyourownfastfastqueenteeth sort of way. More and stammering and the abbot is here to belch a sunshine handiwork. The hair is grown by the hearts of wrinkling gnomes and screwed down pencil necks. Sky or scryers or sprayers or whetted municipals. Razzle dazzle all belfries, just as tall as my sliding quantum. The bird shit on the shoulder of a frozen gasp like factoid blues and swam scorpions. Etcetera as well as seedy undertones and fallen rocks of Rupert Welch. My wife and his wife do not get along over tides and sewage romance. Graphite beaks because nobody can refuse the gastronomic band under needful scanners. Home is a hominid homonym or a vexed radical. Advents for normalcy and normal bromine kisses before the haggard crews. Let go of my somewhat sufficient haggish browner, prodigal stone cold son of a bitching gun stick. Takeover, takeover, hundred and two. Samaritan samurai all like belongings of column crisps. Up to muster, down to monstrous vertical. The zippers pop and co-operative freedom fizzles out with juicy bile. Translucent morning, ringing the syndrome up for a quickie. It's not night so it isn't a booty call. Text him again and he will throw us both out with the laundered cash, stranded husbands and portentous clock hands. Thank you, Erasmus, for not rubbing it in any further than it needs to be hellish. Underside re-enactment with a dagger-like briskness. PE always uses bricks as it drops beneath the radar notation. How black is my sporty bag? Folded cloth, slinking brick, tasty burgers, murdering marks, cumbersome stamps. Checkers with moustache handles on a production line for directive thousands. Weekends spent backwards on an officious bench into it, out of it, along the sides that shouldn't be there. Air is not breathable on this terrain, my synergy is not wonderful or glorious but walking cowls. Hitchhiking south with a fucked-off brassiere that doesn't heat along the longest pinewood shiver stick. Keys and needles. Helping the end of a song to get back up off its nodes and do something about the hats that tumble like weed on a duck's armpit. He delivers frugal bludgeons as if they were mutually founded or respectable in certain circles. That's why he and I don't see eye to eye or leg to leg or anything but the crotch area. It's a manacle, it's a manacle.

21/03/2013 - THROWBACK AND ALTERNATE

            Throwback and alternate before she switches your mind for sugar puffs. It's her or your unread sanity and all its pluralised hair. Receipt of her refrigeration is like a control for the schism or the sawn-off child's nostril, foul and scouting. So many times she has entered your mind and worn your frock and spat on your double-edged razor ring. Buggery and sarcasm go along nicely with her distasteful impressions of derogatory kittens. Simon knew her when she wore heels and when she didn't care about pulverised memes, something akin to your mother in a crazy skirt. It's 50/50 and I suppose she'll split the spilt quilt like your arms when she forcibly confiscated them in the dawn. Brotherly zebras and the waves of her hair cannot depress the picture of her lies in your wilting cortex. It's sad to be said.

            Always is a word you never use, she said while you brushed her hair and sprouted Hell from between the split ends. Extension cords are purring to see her fink as he washes them both in rye and harmony. It's sickening to think of the way she dressed down that Saturday and refused to kill the salamander while he put on the mask. It's a necessity for her to be her these days. Five pounds she costs, five pounds and a promise that you'll write her into existence with a broken pen that leaks green ink everywhere including the genitals. Respawn and rage against turning blinkers. Respawn for daughters instead.

            Her brand of madness is like a tow truck without all the pretty instruments or slapstick psychology. Cryogenic high-fivers, the lot of them. Her nature encourages such fiendish low-lives and her lipstick pretends to bind them in a wedlock situation that features carriages without wheels and light without catches. That deaf violinist is a retarded dimensional positron with no home to call or wife to heed. It's sad but the world brings it on him and didn't leave off until well past ten three nights ago. It's like folded bits of paper, a recital of physicality that shifts into the interpersonal. How crumby it is to be. Erasmus and Neil are procuring planning permission to wipe out the stratosphere but the Mothers for Justice are out to stab them with violinists and facial piercings. It could work but it requires a great deal of strength of character to work all the way down the hill.

            She'll be back, you know that and I kind of guessed it. She'll be wearing the excuses that usually go well with her earrings, start throwing roses all over her top lip and eyeballing the quizzical eyebrows held by lonesome huntsmen but you'll pull through. The hayseed is a curt reminder of human existence, it breaks the gumption and leaves the restful alone. Be dead for a while and see how that suits you, she'll notice but stuff her. She's out for Chinamen and foolish interpretations of strategy and airport humour. Such a pitiful sing-song.

20/03/2013 - TROOPERS ALIGN

                Troopers align with my constellation. It is a fine constellation filled with dilly dally dexterity and false bravado that only trained lesbians can bring. Stability is like Norma without the safety wheels, a dire and faceless, faithless creature. She eats toads and uses the remaining leather to strut among the pigeon trophies.

 

           Wallsandwallsandwinkinghighjinksandwowsersinmother'shenchmantribute. I tried not to struggle so much but then you've always had a predilection towards stringing up famous poets without regards to their feelings or haematology. I infringe upon the jackal and teach his paw the manners of an ox when it's not high tea. Home is along the whisker and devolves as quickly as it becomes prudent. Sign me like a free patio and do not question the productivity of the sun's chasm. Handle the large lager bottle and waste the waist to whittle and paste. Half on, half off, altogether a looker. Salami tributes are the ingratiating factor that's always missing in a child's smile, particularly the ones that scoop out the fish's eye and fling it at the queen mother. It's a fool's errand to say something.

                Stamford sexes under the flag of a salivating salvation of surly economics. Risk the association and detail me with Philadelphia sprites. How the pen lid. Why the pen lid. So many ways to pen lid, lid the pen. Tell you once, tell you with an ice cream in a hand, tell your grandson with the wrinkling skin, reintroduce passionate wanderings without a warrant or permit to show or speak of. This is the way.

                Joustthegastronomichurdlelikesomethingoutofthestripesinmyfringeandyourringfinger. Try again. From the underneath point. From the pauses between breathes and the groans bespoken. Poker and I were not quick to fling dicks on heavenly liquid. They call it manna but I deserve it rightly. I deserve these munchies and break down the thirty hours to a manageable pace of seconds. Semi-sociology and quasi-scientific empiricism, that's what we just saw in the fading phone message. Love the dry terrifically and show me the error of Erikson. Stutter if you prefer, it's all the same to crashes in the night. Resolve the way the rubbers feel and defend it with your guarded and curtained livelihood. Be of further service and I'll kill you with a rotten spoon handle.

                Soul burning like the Sausage Sages and their twinkling epistemology, physiology and brood stick. The leading witness shall grant eleven wishes to the dead few because that's the way they told her to tell it in the tale. Boxing whirligigs are severe to the feint, twice daily for the bewitched genuflection. It tickles like reproduction in a bland foetus. It's not a question of say or say not, it's a question of poop your groin.

                Attachmentattachmentailingalienationattachingtothefrostingquenchorsomesuchthing. My guardians of haemoglobin, how you do me proud in the relentless facts of prudent moths. Draw the drawing pin from the drawer and drawl in a laden swing. Marrows are golden to the rightly goodly and all their narked maternal requisites. How still is the grey point.

19/03/2013 - MISUSE OF THE MISSUS

            Misuse of the Missus will result in a flimsy chainsaw battle. How clever, how watery. How helpless the infidel wanders through the valley of the shadow of a teapot. It's Kabbalah and doesn't involve the ingestion of microscopic glue pheromones.  I am a heart on a pyramid, I'm not supposed to be there without a warrant. It's like he said with the helium that time: 'Go west and seek your procedural employment.' I never had time for his jabber or his tendency to trickle down steps in a tentative fashion. Washers and radios can go fuck a dingo while I retain this orgasmic sense of revulsion. Playing with suitcases will do that to you and no-one will be around to see you make sense of the straps. I personally forsook Velcro due to shameful japery, this is not a buzzword issue or anything that the virgins would suit. Diametric diaphragms are the bane of someone's existence, I just haven't met them yet let alone directed their stage shows. Withdraw the piano and know pain by a flood of erstwhile combs. We're all bound in the same direction after all but we needn't cause the hairs to split like big bitches.

            Forgo the cabby and drink his wife's dial-up aroma or just assume that she will do it because she's already on her knees looking for the manager's contact lenses. It's an entertaining show but not the sort you'd laugh at. Call me superstitious but I refuse to become a viaduct for these half-cocked policeman. Would you, my dearest yokel? I suppose the ghosts scared the living out of the favourite socket. We'll set the jumper cables to the headlights of hellish morons. It's a beau in stitches and still worth a jot but maybe not so much a title. It's same old, same old Susan and Erasmus: stab them in the effects.

            Wagging tails are a deft method for gaining the westward advantage. Saving souls is one thing, groping for attainable love is another. The receiver is shoddy and riddled with loathsome apparel but that's not the problem here, not so much the problem. The difficulty lies in the fact that you go into town too frequently and keep forgetting to bring back tumours for the aardvark. It's missing it's sweetener and can get really crabby when undernourished. Nibs and the original sin are lost to your left eye but I can abide you all the same. That's what parenthood means, giving a damn. Dangling flowers are nothing in comparison to my sterling trickery and impressions of Rasputin. I'll circumvent the elocution lesson and teach you the lip movements before the sun has dithered over your right nipple. That's what I've always tried to do.

            In closing I cannot help but call down the goats to dramatise my gulping dance. The nudist quality is an ornithological quandary: I'll give it to you before the door has fallen back inside its knocker. Ask for white carnage and you shall hone your fragility.

18/03/2013 - THE SCEPTICAL TICK OF MAGIC

The sceptical tick of magic, arranged like a barracuda and it's singing quartet. Garrisons and other Tory factions demand that the Torah be returned to its original seat of power within the gladdening vortex. To view the filth from there is akin to sinking bullets that don't respond to cordial epidurals. It's mystical to be rust and don't let them ask you why in case you haven't got a little dance prepared. It's got to be a flamboyant number or no-one will listen, it just goes that way with these kind of people. The curls in your Styrofoam should say enough with dramatic gusto. Yes it is imperative that you listen to me and my men of mediocrity.

            Questing for duration will lead to nothing but Yugoslavian preparation. Kindness has no effect on the armaments of the Hurdled Dragon and all its weeping women. But why are they weeping? It's the sort of thing that drives the sadist to distraction with lingering qualms and cigarette drags. Pulsating suggestions can't hold this ship together and you should be paying more attention to how the tears roll against the sallow cheek. Tassels and reclusive productivity and heretics and sandwiched drafts. It's not as sweet as the bulging cowards would have you believe. If you want my opinion, distrust every cat's opinion before you open the Can of Sardinia. There's nothing that can be unsaid except the flashes and bangs of high office, no bells or whistles attached. They explain it in the guide because they have to.

            Because the ghastly rigid fingers shoulder the holster like something out of a Halloween pageant. It's jousts with boasting begonias! It's a nepotistic asinine comment from Santa! It's a dreary whisk flung into the lap of a Jurassic Sebastian! It's surly and that's all that really needs to be said about. The ports are calling through the bathtub and will bind the fjord with lipstick and clothes hangers. Flagellation and nowt more. Grandeur and all of his guff will not be tolerated whilst you reside within these eight walls. Defy my wrath and you shall taste the piccolo and forget who you're rooming with. Indeed, fear my mother. She has the ability to tear pipes in two and scatter the resounding fractures like something out of a Blyton book. I'd eat the extract if I were you but then what would there be for a glowing dessert?

            Scotsman of Dereliction and the gutter filled with greasy fields, let my fealties go unpunished or avoid the hand of the Crashing. I stutter like a broken Cherokee filled with lemony vitality and all its inhibited negligence. Ice for the public! Snow for the sinister! Let down your bra straps! See the sluggish and trample them with a crispy whetted beard. Trumpets under guardians and dialectic eye drops. Homely hominids are daydreaming with tunnel systems that quantify the heartless crudity. Stampedes like angels on resolved handsome validity, he wears it like a tweed suit. He forgot the underpants.
 

Inspiration = http://mrpondersome.tumblr.com/

17/03/2013 - STARING AT COAT TAILS

Staring at coat tails. Gliding through rhubarb curtains and their like-minded shards. Teaching dirty whelps to drink to upcoming night terrors of yesteryear. Blinding the binding and branding Brandon. Switching capes with fleshy bits. Finding pretension in spectacles. Shouting with a withering sundown. Throwing red lips into a scathing line-up. Watching previously. Swimming. Squatting. Gobbling graphite in sweetie packets. Rustling till the cows stampede. Rectifying bearded patients. Crucifying their humorous stretchers. Playing one arse against its half-brother. Playing again. Burning opinionated ping-pong racism. Brushing a storm with a winking comb. Routing through the harbingers like so much stuff. Rubbing out. Clambering out of moon landing statistics. Wearing out meatball balsa. Acting sincerely with lightning rods. Piping out the roughhouse. Dripping ties like weeping polka dots. Answering the minutes in Sunday best. Cruising the rift when the eyebrows have protruded. Plucking gold from wholesale complaints. Anchoring pressure cookers. Standing a fallen giant. Trucking rumpus fortunes. Bruising our masks or muskets. Blinking for nightingales. Catching squirrels. Implying a tear of septic larvae. Nosing kiddies under thundering name tags. Pick pocketing  red hair. Pounding. Floundering. Quizzing the barrier with sniffles and careful handling. Broadening yellowed teeth from the facial hair down. Rebuilding physiognomy for overlong, overwrought periods. Hurtling and careening. Swallowing radiation with whores.  Tramping about with our acts together. Changing all the thyme.  Trundling lightly. Freezing quests. Preening the spasmodic medicine cabinet. Appropriating empty knuckles. Styling rain drops when rectal cavities should be whimpering. Respecting ten babies. Breathing commerce. Glazing the stairwell without gloves. Re-enacting the ensuing silence. Wishing for kidneys and blunts. Blunting bollocks forever. Closing the frantic lover under duress. Fooling. Piloting v-neck jumpers. Failing while hunching. Grumbling, humbling, raping the dawn. Tread over here with a glad diamond from Neil. Concocting with Erasmus. Seeding the sleeveless salty deceit. Noting the swaying of orgasmic fatwa.  Twisting new birthday knots. Slaying the tightest gauntlet until one leaves behind a seat. Rushing the jousting with Hanukkah lights or flames, to be particular. Corking then uncorking a shallow pretender with little more than rusting rasps from a naked bee.  Hardening the gardening while tools get lost at football stadiums. Coasting playtime for vocal disasters. Glowing, growing, glowing. Growling with baseball caps. Strangling strangers, angling free. Frolicking  everywhere. Spiking after spanking. Ending sentences with inane frankness. Propelling toads out of sensational sketches. Poring over and out ahead of lonely perceptions. Kiting heartbreak. Pining now. Threatening stars. Croaking circus romance, cloaked with cartoony figments. Hearkening masturbating angels. Crinkling rockets. Billing. Billing. Billing lawn logs. Egging the coconut whispering. Aborting flecks of paper weights and fisting confetti cocktails. Birthing all spatulas and reimbursing the obligatory wheels. Starting rolling evolutions and quad sex with only tissues and rye. Saturating satyrs with burdensome layaways. Culling the septuplets for the sake of king and country while they are off on holiday together doing goodness knows what with the crown. Stapling the vessel to an aching sandcastle and listening to the breaking point. Cracking the solution like you always said you would.

16/03/2013 - SHATTERING THE TALK

            Shattering the talk with nonsense is a wry observation of filth. Nerdy gross outs and boarded up windows and trigonometry all lead to the same place: sordid obesity. Confusion is a profound thumb war when you come down to it and let's not talk in clashing riddles that serve only to wriggle around in naked sewage. Spewing from the mouth of your mother is a platitude that refuses to deplete the human spirit, a phraseology that concludes the nature of blasphemy in espionage. The sheet is slipping and nobody can find the mask anymore. The walls are damasked in wet bluntness. Drip-dry the heavens and see what's left of man's inconsiderate development towards marching zebras with learning hooves. Frailty reprieves the curtain before it brings down the tabula rasa. I told you as much one time so many months in the future of our hand-holding.

            It's like the life has drained out of your face and your faith is showing in the bags around your eyes. Is that a jowl I spy on the rise of your cleft? Bravado slides like tectonic plates on the skeletal defiance. The last fight is over and now we begin the opening of cherishment or the burning box as you'd call it. This is naivety we're talking about, not discussing, talking about. Align with the retro angle and you'll lose the sides of the speaker just as he delivers the key notes to a naval officer's nipple ring collection. Make pretend with stethoscopes and we'll forget all about it. We won't even tell your mummy or teddy bear, that's how good we are to you. Ain't that sweet?

            Socks on shoulders and nobody asks why. They chose it so we follow their rules like littering darlings and the dragoon saloon. Creosote stammering and blow holes of fortitude with nothing but a ranch dressing on the top of it. Let's peel off the transatlantic attitude and draw down the jerky. That's the way to do it as the man said with a hand stuck up his arse. The tiny arms aren't quite up to snuff, they flap about in the slightest noise and bedevil the axle. Bedraggled is lost in the sunshine and cruising around for speeding tickets. It is devising a method of ruining the  space programme with bits of paper and superglue. It's really quite marvellous if you wrinkle your brow a bit and accept defeat.

            Quit bogarting the train fair and light up the deviation at the sprinkler bit at the end of a nibbled string. It's now or never or maybe next Tuesday. I don't fancy waiting around with fingers all over the place and nothing protecting my wrists sufficiently. You know what scares me? Dying at the hands of a small ball that belches sputum. It costs me sleep each night I think about such sweet games in the park involving damp passing and cold throwing. Grapes are grapes are satisfaction and is that enough to end a sentence with?

15/03/2013 - THE WORDS, THE WORDS

1.       Alphabetise the orang-utans and droop like something out of fiction.

2.       Stories are like dinosaurs that wind down after several sexy hours and refute auto-destruct principles.

3.       Pleasure isn’t an arc; it is an archway that despises gravity and all its boxing gloves.

4.       Crustacean lavatories and that is all we have.

5.       Bruce and Calvin and Erasmus slurp the chin wonder and bowl out the Quiff Masters.

6.       I am the switchblade patient. I am both halves of God’s lethargy.

7.       Chatter the chit about quarantine and all will become stems. Games, that is all.

8.       Washes of a station and luminescent vitriolic brand are the Petri dish of powerless existence.

9.       Spines of ribs and bulging sorties: we pack them all in and damned the restless ones.

10.   Orange groves and dried apricots. The black shirts and laughing bald chaps. Give them their ponytails back but leave behind the pigtails.

11.   Stupefy the effigy and become a wastrel like me and my wife. It is quite the sensation, don’t you say.

12.   Poring over the eleven heartaches and stuttering sideways. The flesh bits you left behind our trail are beginning to rot in multiple places.

13.   Machismo and quartz are going to the wrinkled pages with flickering plates.

14.   Shortcut and loopholes. I shall make my bed here, among the tartan spires.

15.   Crusty Defenders, they are. Shall be the end of this very lurking city of ours, like snow and hail on bladed feet. Pinecones always come first, that is nature’s favourite signature and don’t you forget it.

16.   We are in fact the crooked ones with the long faces and insistence on wearing African headdresses. How pathetic, eh?

17.   I have a finger on all your buttons. The woolly hats fall and spread like lightning all over the yardstick tongues.

18.   Bring me my satchel, dearest.

19.   Empty-Heading Visionaries are like eternal death on the quivering lip of Dartmoor. Let’s not grasp an ear for it.

20.   Three survivors and a few of our door knobs repeat again like a hologram of arctic summer air.

21.   Browning daises are of the other field. Dismantling harmony like a cutting of time.

22.   Behold the beak! Beware the cushion! It ducks!

23.   Ropes to be fed to the lost alligator.

24.   Homeless haircuts from an intergalactic bistro. Homosexuality runs the bar.

25.   I shall bite the neck, snap the dove aside.

26.   Oh! I, I, I, I am the one with green turgid eyes.

27.   Beloved fellatio and crumbling paper drinks are all that counts to the smearing dragons.

28.   Wavering woods are filled with goblins and other things that don’t wash. It’s camouflage.

29.   Hornets and sleepy hounds make a wonderful picket fence for the whispered micros.

30.   Laborious brooding for the waxy craft, it is the only right left.

31.   Forget the laundry. Neglect it’s very concept, why don’t you.

32.   Concordantly third place.

33.   Lug around the gaps and murk over the cobweb VCRS.

34.   You wore a hat that time. It made me jealous of the teeming middle.

35.   Blazing whaler fins and all the shattering diamond hides. It tastes of bleeding gleaming.

14/03/2013 - DILAPIDATED DIAL-UP

                Dilapidated dial-up and don't dunno over the fridge. This man is green, his wife is yellow and all his children belong to somebody else who is neither. I heard that his name was Max but he rolled up into a carpet so that might have deepened into something more violet.  Laxative serendipity is a great segue for the French Neapolitan and his faltering bakery. Screw that up if you so wish to dare properly this time.  Birds are mocking my better judgement and ripping the underpants straight off of my scanner and all his punishment junkie friends. There are portals to Hell and Hades and the Japanese drawer bridge that rises out of the earthquake. Dukes of Retardation shall sally forth and do wrongs all over the obsolete handiwork that is the lost tapestry. They say it was made with apes but I have suspicions that it was actually just naked men with too many prickles.

            So I ran and I ran and I jived as I ran and I ran forth like the rain and I ran ahead like the sundry and I ran nowhere like it was elsewhere and I left this planet for another that looks exactly like the moon without all the whiteness. I shall find a wife on this planet and make sure she never wears hair for as long as she maintains tiaras for work. I sink into great depressions thinking about the glimmering and the burning teeth. It's slightly arthritic if you think about it too much like they do. I'm sure I'll find the proper indentation somewhere along the edges, they can't hold that back from my retribution. They asked me about my retribution and I told them it was your pleasure only turned upstairs into paper roses that set fire to themselves. They didn't understand.

            I'll wind down at the heart of the story and drop myself from its uppermost lip. Nothing can force me to fly at this altitude not with the way I forgive myself past transgressions and refute the patio. It's an experiment gone awry. It's my wife. It's a horrid thought on a lonely groin. It's the splendour of my majestic groping. I give the game away too soon and now you're my son. That's how it works in this part of the world, fragmentation only leads to more deportment. You didn't bring your card so tough and jump. I'll wear the hairnet and get you out later provided you keep those thumbs nice and high. They need calling away before the boring raft crushes with my fairing hat.

             Erasmus found out about Agnes and now they are in love. It's a delight for those without eyes and I shall say no more. It hurts to think about the gross glossy magazine sex they have but I suppose it happens regardless of whether I steal the sheets or not. The mattress might change things but that's too much of a challenge. Let's leave them be. Let's leave them to the Dukes.

13/03/2013 - THE BASIS OF TELEVISION

            The basis of television is to hit the crevice before it hits back. The devil has a way with irons and leaflets and will never go as far to tell which he will use at the next opportunity. He is a vile person who carries a basket around purely as a fashion accessory. To be honest, we suspect he cross-dresses and hangs out with the pope down the Theist Thirst bar. Disgusting things happen in there, particularly all over the pulpit. That's why they attached handles to either side, so they could remove it at ease and lift it out of the doldrums like some seeping liquid. Stupidity is infectious and waistbands are the only way out of the hottest situation of your mind. Penis of Wrath and weeding out the ambulances go hand in hand if it weren't for pubic opinion. Stupidity saved us all once but that was so very long ago that not even the elders without ear trumpets can recall. The air was salty with darkness and I couldn't remember where I left my yo-yo. It may have been due to a deficit but I really couldn't say.

            Enough of what I couldn't and can't do - let's discuss raisins and the virulent despiser. Spite is like a ruby fruit; it curls open and vies for union territory with the best of the slug bitches. Its campaign is harsh and often involves the defecation of drawer space. Circumvent this happiness and elbow out the eyelashes like someone's open-ended argument. Science is not exact nor is it friendly towards baby hair. Ah sweet guacamole of love. Prudence and fidgeting are incompatible when you should be playing with silver whips. God owns all the forks; they are his thorns and wayward flicks.

            Before I go on into discussions of deities and their tendency to pilfer thingamajigs and fiddlesticks, let me turn the topic back onto larynx-filled arachnid bags. They have abdomens for thrusting and chimney sweeping equipment for pouring their hearts out. Lame statues and crusty walking sticks: get them out of the vault before they go off and rule some petty army. Violence is always the answer to daft questions involving revolving nightmare strips. The cheek is quaking and the lips are immobile. Go to the shrine and forget her before they find out you ever knew the colour of her hair. I am fluorescent and therefore shall sing out against atrocities that vary from the quibble to the squadron. Homespun drivers are homespun drivers; let us not beat them with their own tail pipes. I have bracelets, these are much more effective. Cousins of light waves are not the issue here, you are. Don’t go turning to the left, don’t go twitching to the right, go up in the air and don’t come down again until you’ve made an agreeable decision that verges on sexy.

            Blow it out your arse and waivers will follow in stream of quiet confetti. How lovely is the sound effect on the soul?