30/04/2013 - NEARLY WENT MEALY-MOUTHED THEN

            Nearly went mealy-mouthed then. Sorry about that. Mysteries always do that to me, the ones of the tabernacle variety at least. I suppose it's just my jangly nerves and the distinct lack of tambourine therapy. Did you know that it takes 60% of the population to even form a perfectly asymmetrical tambourine from wheat alone? They say it involves a lot of compression and electrolysis and everybody, absolutely everybody, needs to be wearing a mother's arm skin across one eye. It's a blinding experience and yet it doesn't blunt the speciality of the mixture. The only thing volatile is the misdirection some hairnet jobbies apply to keep things away from the red brick universities. All I can say is such is life and murky blackness. The ingredients are listed as follows: semolina, party hats, sexy tomatoes, whatever, dried apricots, transcendental martyrdom and a little scratch of cumulus cloud. Any other cloud and you'll have a field day in the lab. Our production leader, Erasmus Tabernacle, is wearing his hard hat now so there's nothing to do but sheet his latest instructions in watertight icicles. The icicles contain cumin extract just to give added flavour, or so the census says. It wouldn't so much as proclaim around Erasmus though, he has a friend in business partner Mr. Thank. He even managed to bring that sonuvabitch Neil onboard, although what he's bringing to the table hasn't exactly been made known yet. That's the problem with snot rag nepotism: some pegs don't fit the roles.

            As part of today's business, I will be plugging in bulbs of electricity. The insides rattle because of all the stapes concentrated inside, it should make a slow rushing sound like a wave or somebody catching their baby from a fallen window. It's not sadism provided you have the relevant package and don't question the fine print beyond the forty-fourth line, the one coloured pink. It takes all sorts of lifestyles to make Erasmus Tabernacle happy, he will not deal with sex for favours unless there is a cultural diversity keeping things interesting. All of his teddy bears have unsightly claws and yet still don't condescend. It's a tough biz as they always say although I'm inclined to disagree with the two-part return of Trustee Steve. That trustee gets around and it scares some of us on the conveyor belt line, he's always swatting wasps and focusing their stings on learning difficulties. There's nothing special about where he intends to go and what he hopes to do with the company resources. Goodness knows why his hardhat's up on the highest shelf of the trustee cupboard. Everybody wanted a cabinet but Erasmus thought it would be selling out to the American Market if we didn't add a cup to every container we use. Nobody talks about how metaphysical shit can get whenever Erasmus wants to fiddle with policies, mostly because we all really couldn't care. Our minds are befitting of urban gardeners: we plough in spite of the white women.

29/04/2013 - ONLY BROWN GLUE

                Only brown glue straight from the clown's perfect mask can detonate the jeep from behind. It sweetens the deal with two pulverised Australians and shucks of draconian unemployment for our bitter better tastes. I want to tap into the hunch of iron books, smear the big gooey ears over slit throat answers. Swirly are like seduction to men on the bus, they make the balcony look practically naked in the process. Bad cops aim for the gonads, brute cops aim for the knee caps. No flesh goes untended and that's a promise from buzz cut blood.

                We are all of us to be played for fools in this case of skulduggery and will work it over for japes and circumstantial evidence. It shutters the blind with bruises and various discolouration so as to make their fruit both pungent and smattering. Do you have some place for them to stay or should we just peel off the files from suckled peasants. Tumultuous Father Decade lives by a wristwatch these days. As he says nowadays, 'hands and faces are for the loose moose-minded'. When the well-wisher crow you know that it is time to arm yourself and, if not, take this as a delicately put  warning for you and your little imbecile friends.

                Mystics make eyes for judo stiffs and distribute them through all the inappropriate channels such as lounging majors and foolish doctored hazy beams. The double barrels are locking into place, leaving barren holes in the last week before our work truly begins. This work requires much standing around the shop and feeling sorry for the self as the dust of armchairs gone by make themselves known up the nasal passages. This is for the violation and the red spatter over my limey arsehole. I catch the devolution as swiftly as I do the shattered starry wrists. It's time to fracture the inward-looking politics with the guy who gets away with everything he doesn't do. Previously he's managed a knife in the niece and an exploitative bedding venture that bordered on illegal conduct. Arrest the bastard before he promotes himself to a higher calling, to a learned state. He deserves an arrow to the fatty tissue and all the squelching red light. Throw everything else away.

                The objective: send  salve to betrayal network station suppositories to resist new motive, assumptions of Irish motels. That's it for the press and their ball games unfortunately. Make them smirk through fingered thugs and become the recipient yourself, bound by a yellow dress and the lady that wears it so fine. Finesse makes spittle gush out through the Morris dancers  and other factions of The Great and Fervent Push. Congratulations for the word are just about in order but they're still lingering at the bottom of the general grimier three-handed pocket. Coats, coats and no more selfish attribution. Ridges return to the gluey statement, paying heed to the blacked out, white drunk eyeballs of round-featured nature. Myohmymysawdusthandjobgrenadeking how he wasn'tquiteassufficientasthetypoerrorsmadehimoutobe, how could they be so crudeandlurkinginanambitiousdancehallofcommissionergloom.

28/04/2013 - FAT WASTE IN OVERALLS

Fat waste in overalls makes rings from gangster ambitions. Frigid country values make the little French women scream and flick their hair like concertina handcuffs in a creaky breeze. The smacking around is a broad statement to make on pert plumy lips. Where were you supposed to meet him? Which vehicle prevented the hearing from happening in this statue exhibit? Our apartment, where the 48 hedonists go to cast tissue soldiers in undelivered package roles. The doors are holed up in inky warehouses, the sort of place you go to run in flatfoot murderer measurements. We could walk right past the girl to the fat boy and break the fists of extremist mercenaries. Isn’t that rich enough?

No paper doll can stand up without a valiant bodyguard to rise up the hairnet, to cool down the carriage in degrees of sunshine. Ammonia. Keep. Me. From. Niceties. Keep. Me. From. Nana. She stuffs her face with deportation and white shirt ecology. Happiness sees illusionists clink glasses and trade blows about worm chow and guarantees for laughter. Weekends in tartan coop up on boats to the southern states of Methodist Methodology. We could maybe make up a run as we go along but the sprint feels so much truer than anything these men in hats and moustaches could ever concoct. I choose to walk on palms and outside of the levels of advisement. The hat is a perfection to be rushed by strong payrolls and mean-spirited defiance. We have a thousand dollars each, give or take a rupee.

Fat waste in overalls reminds me of Jimmy on his way into the haymaker via streetcar. I’ll take you to find the sage and the short curly hairs of tonight. We will know that it is him from the colour of his ears, from the chocolate cigar runners.  Be armed and diligent to a tee, braid the kissy-wissy mistress of elevator shafts and expect to be crammed in with chewing gum and respirators. The wings are not actually that becoming when you think about it, really think about it. The tapping of blackboard equations must forsake the blues guitar and all its painful devil twangs. She was of course in custody at the time of the chest hair, she was making things especially difficult for the other boys. Life is a rough ride, normally even more so for the seventh and his addiction to football scores.

There is little else going on offshore, little by little the chains and watchstraps are making mockeries out of the universe’s very source. Guns are being kept ready in case the men held hostage turn nasty and want to drive hotdog stands into the sides of the parted ocean. Manhattan cables are leaving my knuckles featureless and irrespective of humanity. The coil is sniffing the rear alley to teach you about the vile and inspired citizen. Home is a short walk north then a quick detour through the island evacuation site. Bullets are for favours so make sure you pay conscientiously.

27/04/2013 - TO THE CONTRARY

            To the contrary we go with handfuls of rice, casting bits into the lagoons in between concentric dimensions. It's like the cornucopia of wealth, of starvation, of untold umbrella factions, of preternatural velocity. We are rushing out on our milk stones, on our tempted roustabouts, on a wink of foreboding. Erasmus kept the key-holder trapped in a grasp or a clasp: we can never be sure because the bikers sealed off the hull and continue to trial the knob that asks 'why'. Asthma drains my source material and therefore makes me unable to predict futuristic events outside of a liquefied horizon.

            Here is the plan of attack: thrust the quick quilts against Erasmus' rawhide and watch the coolant pour out of each executive nostril. When enough time has passed, reach under his chin and dissect stripy lozenges. Apply these lozenges to a unique formula called Compound Sac and fling it around the children's cot. See it burn the shaving cream, see it rust apart the lightning round. It's exactly the sort of thing that causes sudden death in red-headed hatchets. That way you can make plenty of room for proud footings and complimentary quiche. There could be probabilities happening right now and we'll never fix ourselves from this didactic spot. And so it was.

            But should it not be, bind the cotton with retro-thrusters and cast the vitamin diamonds to the crusty hemisphere. The clouds eat their own out here, they're all made of dust and structural cannibalism. It makes the man's hand a sliver against the carved-out dawn, maybe even finding the twist in the cable in the middle of the heavenly calculator. It all makes for a hard formula to compromise, all it's swerving black marks and wrinkling fields of abstract thunking. It could be merging and making staples out of our tacit hairs but it's too proud to be so architectural.

            It's not that we don't care, it's that we shouldn't. These days the dust covers and flicking the books back and making them into golden watches worth a multi-screen on the market. It would sooner loose the tapestry from the werewolves' clutches without even touching the neatly-trimmed nails of success. The diaphragm leaves us truly demonic, it lets us smoulder in our own desire for truancy and lima beans. It makes the arm bands drip away into harbingers for the ant people who lie beneath the faltering carpet. We could spend our time thinking about ways to make Erasmus beg for mercurial majesty but to do so would be a waste of a perfectly sweet and rummy hamper.

            Medicine is supposedly the answer but how can anyone be certain that the chemicals can even help? The people of our fair city cart around feasibility so we don't have to, they go about their days doing little else but throw caramels against business suits. It's only Tuesday and choose me outright or face the failure of blurry principality. I'm sorry, it just makes me so horrifically mad.

26/04/2013 - THIS WAY OUT

This way out of a balding man’s handgun, following the quivering line of a half-forgotten, half-chewed bullet as it flies to wicked laughter. Let’s go while we’re centred and in some Australian’s perfect place and let’s watch the gale wander into the eye socket of a bleeding mage. The day is nothing to the piano; it is a concierto that reviles the lino and the headband and everybody else that is without a mile radius. You know what we’re doing, we’re wiping scum from the underside of her cheek, and we’re seeing her at her most restless. The ecstasy of pepper makes the marriage seem fitting for the first time in a lifetime of award ceremonies. It really doesn’t make you feel appreciated considering the shape of pubic imagining instead it keeps you following the yellow vine with the husky vocalisation. The parking spaces it hides in its future mark the trees with superstition and cause deployment of the bandages. The fiscal hair of our neck muscles is a reminder of dance that wasn’t had in the forests of kidnap. Fate is filled with bodily fluid and stands ready to reimburse humanity for all its prideful troubles; it never really ends at one point to move onto another.

Escape from tree bark is the real honesty of immigrants from the matchstick box, the ears and the statement of valour. Please don’t run for the sake of dignity, appreciate the cruelty of a misplaced barrel in a misconstrued anal passage. Music makes the frilly pictures and allows the chant to come away unprincipled. They have no reason to miss the drugstore victim; they have no static to bind the earring, no demon’s horn to mask the tribute. Smoke is all we have to play with, smoke and its riding horses launching from A to 31. Baloney sandwiches are the commodity of this stalker’s wisdom. Promise not to cry and the preacher will save you from the wigs of repentance. It’s scary to think how many times this line will pass down the centuries in order to become something ethereal and filled with clotted cream. It would probably stop the ventricles if it didn’t bust apart the secretary with its irksome stare. I might have been watched by an oink but here’s a real prediction for you: throwaway cruise ships are the feed of concrete monsters. Watch the metal ground into pasty white boys.

The cops are castrating the vermin of the widening doors, falling on broad shoulder economies to make the starting bits meet in dangerous fashions. It’s a holistic tragedy to be a patch of cloth: the mirth is what we withdraw when we spend time indoors whilst our other halves meet for casual coffee arguments and extra-marital explosive fits. It’s the right day to be confidential and the real danger is not of hope but of dog collars that don’t wind round properly. It makes me into dialogue as a handle for poster technology, an unnecessary point of no return.

25/04/2013 - GROANING DEFENSIVE PROCEDURE

Groaning Defensive Procedure deprecates the negation of tertiary motherfuckers. It's a timely heat signature that yearns for the woman, her salubrious love of Massachusetts.  Her skull echoes through the very hair follicles of Kidney Wimps and makes their erections fast and ten times as prompt. The dust is not for yellow crutches to decide, not for men in US military gear, not for all the lava in this merry-go-round. Credits roll like dope and crowded feet and the betrothal of one man to another's hissy fit, all shoved into a pilot episode for an advertised microwave oven. The flags of the greyscale are all equally important in the all-seeing eye of mountains. It truly is a lugubrious exercise in salacious entertainment.

            I am always beside the boardwalk on these occasions, rapping about the legendary circuitry that was our historic rise to fame. Sometimes I squat there with Erasmus and beg for tips from all the monkey people to see if they're still listening or could maybe make sense out of the pencil marks dividing time zones. It wasn't a waste to be in this bruising galactic empire, it was a treasury of all our phallic humour and obsessions for encrusting digestive organs into the makeshift crown of chocolate. We never do this well.

            The men with six lives takes a reductive attitude towards morose orators. He implies that he will run them through with a plaintive toad and clean the remaining hole with sarcastic plasters. It freezes the missiles north of the grandeur, munching them into brunch to assistant in corporate exploitation. The clenching begins now, provided you rescind your obligatory bumper packs. The graven back pain would be most displeased if that was your fortune, it'd be furious that it couldn't use its bow of despair on your clarity.

            Syrian relaxation waits for no man, it can often be found in ceremonial cloud formations. The fluffiness is a necessity when dealing with the blue ink and its patented tapestry. All the above is their doing and very few can actually account for that, mostly because they have Shirley linking their bass instruments together in a burly boxing ring. Sameness can hamper the red in the sky through impartial means, it can make a terrorist out of a zesty phobia. Similarity isn't so bad because eating pizzas isn't technically a crime by an measurement of cut straws. Purloined lice are rattling around the brains of abstract ideas in order to catalyse a new weather condition although they could just as easily be throwing down gauntlets for the strident chicken coops to pick up. Such messes leave the speed at a clear 74 minutes barring showers of phonetic crossword solutions. The name of the abstract point of view is Septimus and it deals in charms and papery flakes  so we can throw off all the people who wish to break bread with other people with melting ear lobes.

            It is and it isn't. My, my, how the mugs get their engines going.

24/04/2013 - DRUDGERY GOES WITH THE WORDS

                Drudgery goes with the words, leaving behind only smatterings of the boorish sanctimony for the birds to feed on. The landscape it leaves in its wake is nothing but a bowl of sarcasm, a big crystalline bowl of unholy cloths scattered across the paving stone to the sound of merrily clapping hands. The knife edge cliffs reverberate with lucrative sound waves, singing out a tune that only the Himalayan Wiseman can listen to without vomiting precariously. The air is filled with fusty tissues and giggling wank rags that fade into the molecules like a harmless deity does the sunset. It is roughly at four o’clock that the crates come crashing down to maraud the remaining acidic conversation with divots and parking tickets. The people who converse are the clean ones, everything else with bipedal support are blind and organic with the touch of a tongue and a limping simplification. They have rosy cheeks and matrimonial wisdom that great lizards shun because it’s just not their kind of thing. The great lizards make the paving slabs rise whenever they conduct in aerobic exercise, usually on a sex-starved whim. It’s the cups that pay attention, they only spill over when it’s a shooting of minced policeman or doffed trouser legs.

            The lone argumentative rider comes jogging in, in his kaftans and sarsaparilla holsters. He shoots up the Denmark Dozen with the razor noses of his grandson’s bigotry and learns the tribal tongue so they can know that he did it for them. The diamonds make him a beauty to befall but only when they’re positioned in such an upturned way. It’s indelicate to remark on his chinking armour or the way his armpits are smarter than him and often put him off his game with their snide positing. He is a man with a mask for a face, a man who sucks the trickle-down politicking right out of the dog’s ear. Only a dead person with wings for naps can draw him aside and beat him senseless. He does love his chocolate cardinals and constantly sprinkles them on purpled prostitutes. It really does depend on your orientation if you’ll enjoy the coat show. Now the screams are coming through the baggage handlers and there’s nothing for him to do but remove his winking winkle gun. It’s a destructor’s penis, they say, the finest destructor in all the lampshade districts. Qualms come and go but nobody does the district like a destructor.

            The rider throws his coat through the barkeep and responds to his emails via a jiggle. He then soldiers on with his day and spits into the farce of the giant teeth in his soup. New to personal growth the rider stands up and dresses himself in a woman’s curtain rail hooks. It makes the heart sick to see such a travesty of metal go unpunished or unpolished. The Guards of the Regardless are offering to kill his head and use the rest of his body for target practice. We’ll agree, sort of.

23/04/2013 - THE FOGGY OVAL EYELIDS

The foggy oval eyelids retain a milky texture but only among the destitute blind and welting Welsh. Mother only has pride for the innovators, for those who defy the commonalities with their insistence on footnotes and various wordy paraphernalia. It makes my mind small in comparison and keeps me reading up so that one day I might be as smart as these Mr. Alec Pants people types. Think of me as the Samson with a Chihuahua locked firmly between my thighs, think of me as the guy who has his ear stuck in a hair dryer and is begging the National Guard to do something about it before my old war wound starts acting up. FYI, it’s flatulent and irritable, quite like the author of several bestselling novels about boxing and the tiffs between rings. I suppose I’m snoring like Erasmus at a sunset parade, making sure my fingers are firmly wedged in the button holes to keep out the sceptical wand-wavers and charming hair sweeper darlings. It’s time to paw the ventricle and see what doesn’t occur for scientific purposes. I suppose it will be:

 

1)      Barking laughter

2)      Quasi-demonic cherishing

3)      Alarming body hair quizzes

4)      Never-say-die attitudes to situations involving DVDs and bootleg ninja stars

5)      Camera-shy monks shooting the breeze with BB guns

6)      Door knobs

7)      Nora and her ilk representing the southern states of America

8)      Crocodile tears before the bedtime of calcified violets

9)      Goodness and gladness and gory sexuality

10)  All in rows and nothing else but curving binders

 

I’d prepare the elephant guns but they are taking a back swing on this one. The hero has a name tattooed on his back and only his great grandfather can translate what it is, mostly because it’s his own snot that obscures it. Anaesthetising chasers without a permit is liable for octogenarian Aryan butt play. Jasper and pound coins roll about the plain, laughing while they don’t once refer to satellite misogyny. The robot heads are baffling the murderous riots into a standstill, so much so that the army men are rising up to paint plastic across their naked brisk chesticles. The door is opened a crack and only a crack to let in the really cool cats and to spite the men who can’t think for themselves, let alone their sweet-legged daughters. It’s a veritable tornado of conductivity, my zeitgeist is lurching in the undergrowth, trying to find some form of tangible claw to cling on to at the behest of their sacred livelihoods. It’s the sand running out in the desert, the writing on the grains of nobody’s business. It’s going forth to conquer and coming back to gratifying arse scratching. The kitchen tiles collapse on the good and the gormless alike, they shut the box like it’s a movie ending that the box office paid a pretty penny to see and will not go without. The walls are filling up with suppositions and gradually being picked away at by love.

22/04/2013 - UPON A KNAVE

Upon a knave, I played a pipe with only the ghost of a lemon-scented memory at my side. The Witching Hour drinks bitter chocolate with its Japanese fists as we gladly thrown on chainmail. All my paintings will be wedged into paternal wickedness and made to shape clouds appropriately but I will budge and speak accordingly. Is it the king or the king's advisor? It was fortune's intrusion that rang these palms of intervention, stub by modest stub. Timeliness is raggedy and so we exact assurance and encourage it to become merry mildew. Kill the pearls and you cut the lady dry as shreds in the full-tongued moonlight. my trough is tardy for the sake of fighting off the visitations. It bends the eye into wayward curls. Muddy confessions spread by clefts and resolve only the most fallen daggers. Learn the bloated rhyming couplet as it unravels into a craft.

            I am the power and beard of the Endless Council, providing forklifts for the crudely drawn and otherwise disadvantaged. The dustbins were evenly split by the massacre and only just set aflame to become a multitude of floating gloves. Alas the messenger wears a bubble of coats in order to disregard the unthinkable uncle without the interference of a stony tablet. The horses come again to kiss the knuckles of gnarled knaves and all their comical clapping. Why do roses beget space travel in thirsty-faced pools? Who would even know in this slimy climate? Armed and ready for proud vines to come forth in naked shipments. The storage facility chooses clamminess over fortuitous methodology and rosy-cheeked counting. The true judgement lies in the devil's stories, not his little tales of battalion sorrow. That hair is gross.

            And the ashes cum through broken windows and bind themselves in the many unfinished quilts of Grandmother. Her hand has turned towards some such poetry that the stems become a pretense to late Gentlemen of the Seventh Row. It is, of course, time to become grieved and thoroughly insensible to thence. Now the money keeps its own counsel out of disrespect for the pansies that call themselves roofs and bonnets. Immortality is stuck to the back of a post-it note, describing whores in streams, moving them into babbling cavities. My hands are drowning in lonesome modicums, trying their best to sing the ditties of grave-digging. How absolute the clown blasts its logic, through both the cannon and the glorious scope, hither and thither. The jester throws the everyman's back out to the whine of chimes.

            Pollution's the Catholicism of caches, the rosemary of blunt force trauma. I prithee the connection is becoming a modem and a router all by its lonesome. The dog has a day release from its owner's kennel so he may see the rudeness of my pretty criminalities. This crown is purely conjunctive in relation to the gender and fluttering familiarity. I'll sooner cut the throat of that senile pulp muncher, to teach the sleuth not to wear his head backwards and beneath the unbridled coat of misfortune.

21/04/2013 - ELEPHANTINE HONKS

Elephantine honks in the night keep me alert to the fact of fast moustaches. Say what you want about me but my customers like me in nylons, they want to share moonlit waltzes with my wife. It’d all be to the sound of trombones if I could have it that way, twice as white as Steve Martin’s hair. The crackers betrothed my wiry stature and refer constantly to my pig farming days as if they were anything but the epicentre of my bedside intelligence. How I miss the crustaceans on the horny pillows and the footprints they’d leave behind to remind me of their girth and romantic delusions. Homoeroticism shoots through the Western landscape while we call the airline to bring forth the wolverine phone transcripts. I had over seven hundred dollars in here and I don’t care for the accusations. We were robbed by the small time hucksters of our tradition in order to become van people ahead of that structural septic tank. Morris dancers brook neon laughter and sow the remnants into limey seeds.

It’s a beautiful country to become a wastrel in; there are so many carols to be sung just to get in. The ticket’s a gift for someone’s least favourite holiday, the plunger being a side note to the issue at hand. Steam wears a negligee to see the show; it gets Smoke hotter than whiskey-flavoured Deuteronomy. It’s a passion unto itself, heading on to a wispy trap. Such a sad, sorry hamster becomes a snort of maddening trapeze sex and only morons want to get a front row seat that sort of thing. Perfectly disgusting and richly sickening, yahoo! So I didn’t hide the last time, what does that have to do with the ducks in the rainbow fire? The guitar still plays, it still functions despite missing its lucky penny and various other paraphernalia. The switch runs perfectly randy and Norton and Erasmus are yanking the jewel off of the race course like it was never supposed to be there in the first place. It wasn’t but at least we all have the common decency to approve of its existence in our day-to-day reality bubble. Glory be heaven in a clutched vacuum bag.

Nosy Erasmus has opened the portal to Neil’s navel and all of its vile, sweaty secrecy. Like the caped fairy once said, dive first and you forget whatever it was you even came for. It’s the first sign of dementia and we all know there is no bag to check for instruction manuals, no scratching post to cling to. Outside of the void there really is only forty eight ways to survive appropriately, three of which are: dress entirely in golden paint, throw books at the freshly-dug corpses, make a mockery of the guy wielding the twin pistolas as if they were educational. There really is no betterment such as the one proclaimed in your nightmares so stop pretending to scratch the surface of the tent. Sarcasm is a drug.

20/04/2013 - CUT THE ROPE

                Cut the rope and let the dramatics hang out with the only society that remains undiscovered, it's not unforgiveable nor is it quality to the eyes and ears of the hoggish seventy three thousand eight hundred and fifty four, they have mouths to feed and murky waters to cross in knee-high boots that transcend the facetious garrison and all his ridiculous qualms on the matter of garden state economics or practical barometer mischief or yuletide spandex sharing or anything of that unfortunate ilk that still remains unprepared for the trained eye and all its shivering lip syncing for the sake of the moon cult.

 

            The sky has long drooping sentences that it sprinkles all over the clouds in order to ascertain the very nature of toppings so they can simplify the equation to within an inch of its hysterical existence, much like the time we went down to the grove in order to swallow the daylight hours with a side of mustard and cheery cherry sauce that refute my masochistic attitude towards marriage and all its unmerited dalliances before the Crunchy King of Martian Depravity or, as we have learned he is called throughout the many-headed cosmos, Mr. Thank of the Prussian Mythological Might and Lurking Club.

 

            Bells are withdrawing from the supplement by the dozen so as to teach the higher ups in our shuffle snake society that nobody ingratiates themselves to the gods of any culture, they merely watch us in the shower and wonder where the lengths of hair come from and how we could possibly know to plat them or bind them or use them to choke our beloved little ones or utilise them to prise the advent from the fingers of a crazed opportunist like that chap in the gilded trouser pockets, the one with the pipe up his bum and the nuts in his cheeks.

 

            Myopia is the answer to all the problems that have plagued humanity since the start of the upper crust revolution of revolting potato husks and maitre dez hearts, while all the time we are acting distressed in order to fit into tidy little tick boxes with the notations scattered around them higgledy piggledy  without the aid or necessity of milky breasts a mile long and sawn-off quizmasters whom you can never get to put their finger away out of concern for the children who might take offence at the slightest organic provocation or loophole agreement or some such travesty that besets us all on the East Coast.

 

            It takes a brave dais to drag the lake without warranting sexual tension from the otter people from somewhere underneath the bridge and it's trolley dolly insistence on being a part of the video games that nobody ever asked them to be in, in the first place, that was the bell who asked for that and I don't think anybody would question its authority when dealing with such matters of an irreducible, swerving, same sex nature, not from somebody who is known to live beyond the manor without a sense of immigrant questing to drive the spittoon along the roadside all by its lonesome.

19/04/2013 - GRAPPLING HOOKS

            Grappling hooks are for rapists with little to no body fat. Did you know that yoghurts are the only things to truly cast aspersions? Did you conceive that the trouble with today is that tomorrow never got a chance to pull the panties out of the crack? How the gherkin revolutionises the flashing shields! It makes me proud to have exotic chills and no receipts to pay out of some loyal obscurity. The drums are becoming cables and that is a project unto itself. The real reason we ask for silences is to retain book covers before the transform into dusty sleeves. The sand gets up the fabric and won't cling on properly until the utility reimburses itself in a vocal manner. We cast plastic sheets over everyone who doesn't wear a sirloin armband. Splashing out the skies shares impactful similarities to ticking clocks and masterful loins. The stegosaurus becomes a country in an overnight conquest and there is nowt to be said in defence against the rising tide of the last minute to the hour. It's perfectly ergonomic.

            The campus comes from the derisive tin merchant's workaday plans, the ones he drew on fly charts and his secretary's underwear. Breathlessness is WHATEVER in a world filled with PERMENANT, or so the princess says on her day's off. The name of the show is DELIGHTFUL DETRACTORS and the hands are yet to be washed to within an inch their unnatural lives. It's a plosive that hums with a drawl all over the world and maybe through the belly of a heretic's nation. Radicalism always said it wouldn't leave the trousers to dry in draughty rasps and I suppose now we've had it confirmed. I thought they'd cast a shadow, I hoped. So what do we have now? A yellow research assistant is a far cry from the treacherous days of our wonder years. We see the haze now and that's all we can think of. It makes me a kernel among the cold and drippy. How the wings emerge to spread themselves in an indelicate delicatessen. It's yummy and filled with face paints of all sizes. And the razzle and the dazzle and the vajazzle but not the rainy destitution.  It's an earthen production and one that rarely ever gets counted in Munich: it's just a delight to view mechanical dinosaurs tramping across the mulch and green. It might though, it might just be.

            It's Erasmus on the last train to heavenward sex pots or the central divergence agency, just follow the tracks to their monumental ear flick. It stops at Leeds and moves onto Mercedes from there, all the way to the magical rumpus room. It's frantic, oh bologna it is the very spectrum of frantic! It might just ruin the boiler with its rusting monotony. The joy is slurping through the cracks of the tummy wish fund like something out of the window locks. Life in the black space is perfectly charming provided you watch your language, dear.

18/04/2013 - DISHWATER DYNAMICS

DISHWATER DYNAMICS was the title of the paper that was curled up in my litter box. It made for a simulation of terrible juice water that made my tired eyes scream ruby-faced monstrosities. Mother, did I bother the hedgerow that day! Glory be! The disks and the discs and the kaleidoscope tribunal. It kept itself all tightly in a bowl of spaghetti in order to fool me in my deliberate transgressions. It featured a hellish typography, the sort that wears trilby's despite the hot weather and the distinct lack of ironical humour. I couldn't help but say SORROW'S A  SUN TAN LOTION! I could help but proclaim myself QUIZZICAL PREDATOR TO THE MAESTRO! Suffice to say, my haemorrhoids were acting up again and nobody knew how to qualm or how to appease the liar's imminent musicality. It's like silence is a better gradient than any other quotient it could possibly ever offer for such a measly amount of money. It kept me directly away from the speedy respite, it kept me licking the corners with blackened spittle, it kept me like a kept woman keeps a basic principle at the bottom of her naked sock drawer. It's a lonely business smoking pipes and putting up posters. I commend you for even trying to reply to whatever it was she had said out of slander and starry-eyed verity. I dropped kerosene all over that doormat and haven't even looked back once to check it lit itself properly. Mother, my switches are growing out of the Texan's telephone numbers. Think of it as a formula, the sort that nobody could follow except the maths geniuses or the jinn of my gin and tonic. I'll play away from the volume if I have to and bolt down the warts when and if they come up for the poisonous substances that we call air. It's sickening to think how often we oil the galaxy and how infrequent our conspiracies become. It makes me want to say HEY, WHAT'S YOUR PROSPECTS, YOU SILKEN-CHEEKED MARY? WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY GIVE YOU TO TRADE FOR THAT GLASS OF LEMONADE YOU INSIST ON SPORTING. It really was quite fitting you know, last Monday that is. Any moment now the vogue will change again and my orphanage of possibility shall be handed off to the appropriate authorities. Maybe it's because I'm virile, maybe it's because I grant BOONS. Then again, I could be stood like a cowboy at a bar, chin pushed forward and moustache hanging out like nobody's business. Glory be, I could even lose the hat in a place like that. What would my identity be then? Maybe something of a footnote from this little booklet. DISHWATER DYNAMICS REFERS TO THE YIELDING EFFECTS OF SUBSTANTIAL MODALITY ON THE PEAKS AND TROUGHS OF ADRENAL GLANDS IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. Well, it takes a cold dead wastrel to decide the logic of time and space. It takes a man who didn't even know his place when he was a youngster, a huckster or anyone else for that matter.

17/04/2013 - OGLING IN ABSENTIA

            Ogling in absentia. Shuffling in diametric fraternity. Brusquely acquiring sediment. Prowling over egg shells. Smattering the hempen lungs. Heaving the yeasty pistols. Matching the twin medics. Razing the futuristic breadstuff. Raising the frogmen.

            This is the way that it has always been, a rub down in circles and nowhere to be grater. Light frisks make the milk shoddy and fulsome and morons can only cope with the after effects. It's a dismal failure to be alone. It's a Danish call to arms. It's forever young in a field of annoyance. It's a handful of featureless whiskers. How little it all matters.

            Wearisome laundry drags me with rags to the scatter combs while jousters joust in frivolous lawsuits. The speckled espalda doesn't know riches from the ridiculous and therefore will never acquire something akin or at the very least near to heavenly taste. It's a tragedy to think otherwise. It's just plain old 'sulking in an art house' tragic. Caskets and blunderbusses keep me safe from the threats that blank canvases might bring. They don't collapse quite as much as they used to and that shit just makes me uneasy. If you were of the right sort, I'm sure you'd agree. Maybe you'd use a little more tact and a bit less fire and sing song. It's a story all about my sacapuntas. It's saying otra vez to the like-minded simpletons before they do up their ties for a hard days labour in the mudslinger county. Goodness prevents itchy back syndrome and Erasmus is withholding the goods more out of spite than financial gain. Sometimes he makes me so proud to be his son.

            I was watching a comedy once and it made me lose twelve minutes ahead of the afternoon. I aged like a hipster, without the hereditary close-up shots and fiery engines that roar and say naughty things about men who pout. It's perfect and boundless like all things that make me intentional and filled with sperm. Head for the station! I'll need to be outside for a bit, maybe externalised to the shed. It's just wood and dissipation again, I don't even leave the masks on in case I offend anybody with lactose intolerance, even the fidgety lesbian precursors. Let me inform you, they are damn hard to please when the wraps are all tucked and folded away. They leave nothing behind to chance or to his best friend fructose.

            Walking home is like keeping fleets in your trouser pockets, it makes you alive to the prospect of lazy humour or whirling eyeballs. It moves with the crust and leaves behind only skid marks from a forbidding era of shapely division. My discount stores suffer wisely in the face of ugly surfers and various other blasphemous insinuations. My angels and burgers, the bugles are coming up cold, coming up for an airy, breezy, windy altercation. My discography has nothing on the tortured misconception of our livelihoods and their ultimate meaning. The Minx prepared us for such long-listed tragedies.

16/04/2013 - SIGNIFICANT IMPROVEMENTS TO YOUR HEALTH

                Significant improvements to your health go both ways, kind of like a stripper on a turgid cliff. It falls to the nape to decide the fate of a luscious sentiment and therefore you have no say in the matter, not unless you're willing to make swift payments to the regardless service. Just a reminder, servitude is compulsory no matter who's palm you grease. Think of it as a buttering up of resources, a gentle knife blade to the underbelly of romantic toast. It's soft and the concept is filled with cream, Tasmanian cream. That's the sort of stuff you don't want waking you up with a crotch sniff. Experiences range from the terribly bad to the mind-numbingly viscous. The leaves are made out of curtains and you can pass through them, provided you make the tiger purr in fifty different dialects. The pike swims in the opposite motion so you might get away with a quick pat too.

                A day at the beach is not covered in our winding contract, it is choked to death by the sheer paper chain of it. The sunshine is allowable on some days of the week but if you dare to make a longing glance outside of the rocky terrains of a whetted cubicle then you're going to be severely disappointed. When it's time to get away with stuff, you will be told in due course and maybe with the visual aid of ice cream sundaes. It's a little on the casual side but we can afford to be playful in the process of teasing solutions. The spuds are hereditary though so you must continue to eat them and eat them with gusto. Remember that the cameras are constantly on you and will not dither until your toilet break breaks through the dawning of morn. The lens is a receptacle of filth but even then the bright lights can be anything but rectifying to the introvert spools of tape.

                Timing is whatever we please it to be. The hours are non-committal and will abide by the thumbprint of the big boss in the tiny office. The chairs are tiny too but comparatively the make you feel  red-cheeked and spruced up with sexual energy. It's like living at home with a zebra: a quaint premise but one that surely would not work in practice. Where would the milk go? Who would volunteer to put up wallpaper? Can we lose guests appropriately? That's not for us to answer but you might give it a try: the voice recordings are like a fond farewell to harsh judgement. If you are in need of consultation then visit the brethren and spring a prophylactic leak directly in their floppy faces. We don't pay them to look self-sufficient.

                Then what about the memo? Deary me today, the bounders are about, aren't they? Didn't you read enough? The purpose of this exercise is not to answer questions or even to ask them, it is simply to make you shit yourself in a new and proactive way.

15/04/2013 - THE BLISS OF TRANSCRIPTS

                The bliss of transcripts keep the eyes off the ball and makes them roll on their respective bellies to be scratches. It's reprehensive really but nobody could deprive the smiles all round the place whenever it happens. It's like the lonely barkeep watching pornography on his phone and writhing backwards and forwards against the pint glass boxes. However I have been known to revert to a childish state whenever I see this, causing me to shoot the man in the back of his rectum. It's a reflex. It's all in the gun barrel and travelling fast and out of the way.

            The way I see it, things can only ever get easier on the bedding situation. The doorways will shatter at the prospect of gold mines making mints out of paper drawers with the flick of a switch and a knife in the trifle. Alchemy is a fine art and one that doesn't ever reverse the common statute of physical limitation. It makes all of science wear a happy face, if a little Victorian in its tweaks and values. Either way it gets the ball rolling while the eyes are looking elsewhere, staring if you will. Whatever it takes we'll get back onto topic.

            Morse code is a delicious morsel to those with toothed ear holes, and an erotic disposition. Pay the fireflies appropriately and you can have this too. There are boomerangs everywhere but up in a hellhole like Michigan's Lurch. More to move than to see, more to dance than to shit the bed. Keeping parameters out of alignment is a difficult mission to undertake for even the badass maniacs of the world, it is certifiable whilst dripping water. Watch out for the galleons and you should be saved from hefty payments. I am not good with mathematics so prepare to unfurl the fabric of natural equations.

            Moreover and less under, we all must make key rings out of freeloading motherfuckers, maybe even throw a funeral into the alien voices. Listen to them as they hear the words and don't know what to do with them. It sort of reminds me of daily politics and the gangrene that ensues whenever they exceed the patriotic grasp. I bequeath the inherent death to the wasps, mostly because they are the eldest of the pact and therefore do not adhere to Marksman's Syndrome. Such a bane of a disease, apparently it's not forgivable either.

            You might go to court yet so prepare your suit with all the nice little trimmings around the thumbprints. It's the homemade bomb you kept in your back pocket that caused the most ruckus so you really have no-one to blame other than yourself and perhaps the remote control admission you requested. And today was going to be such a long day, and tomorrow might have been something a little more fitting to your like-minded attitudes. We are off to Pakistan to see what there is to finger and maybe make break over and over again. Holidays!

14/04/2013 - THE DEVIL HAS A GRAND SCHEME OF THINKING

            The devil has a grand scheme of thinking that requires the person in question to throw themselves hither and thither without qualification and without remorse. It sort of looks a little like this, only less text-based and more factual. My weight has nothing to salvage from such vile and vapid pelvic thrusts so I'm afraid that I won't be gaining anything with you for the time being. Blame the wench from across the parlour, she stole my mojo and fed it to the peacock panther kings. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out your yo-yos for the friendship network, especially with all the bureaucracy going on. It's perfectly mindless and reduces midriffs to even lower positions. We drink concoctions here just to forget about the temperature of the mangled climate, we down them when we don't feel as appealing as we ultimately are to the aardvark community. Mischief does all kinds of things to the genitalia. The dreams that come from ingestion, oh the dreamy dreams of dreaming! How putrid and cuddly! My, my!

            Lie down and the whole world takes five for a micro-nap. It is surely an exercise in not being nice to everybody you meet wearing a bowler hat or a bicycle pump. They can be decorative, don't you know, they can be. Madcap dramas are like dwellings in the trouser department of most discount store: a furry equivalence. They've had so many warnings and so few squirts of hypodermic luncheons. The rampage is filled to the brim with Kurdish keys and Polish dashes and sometimes a few Eastern European majesties. It's fun how it ruffles to melding pot's feathery head, it's fun how queasy it makes our peoples look in spite of themselves and all their principles. Don't get me wrong, I regard the world with endless disgust but at least I put on a sunny hat to ward off the doldrums for a while. Don't touch that piano: that's where I keep the ones that land straight in my lap. At least the vampires are coming to wipe away the rest of the ice cream van killers, we should sit back and watch their battles with wafers. The tables are rising against the nameless heroes simply because he chooses to ride a horse instead of a noble sturdy trumpet knife. They have legs these days, really rather modern when you think about it.

            The bullets are not as sleepless as we'd hope. Erasmus teaches them in whispers to rumple the carpet and make grumbles out of the cordite friction. Mothers have never seen such vengeance since the days of the brilliant resistance to individual thought processing. It's sheer cognisance without all the namby-pamby crudity that we've come to expect of the oncoming famines. As soon as you get the lead out, you bring the tigers out for their sugary treats. Give them the whole cone or they'll paw at you until your down to your slacks and regretting ever wearing strobes of socket puppets. They're vicious.

13/04/2013 - DANCING WITH WIDOWS

                Dancing with widows breaks the spirit and channels it through the nasal hairs. It's like a longing that sort of bashes about the place with its paper hats and droopy-eyed festoons. Home keeps me from going to the bad place known only as the Speech Impediment, a land filled with rotting alphas and combusting affidavits. My sword is not for grinning, my grain is not for the salivation, all my weaponry is packaged and labelled according to height and sexuality. Keep them segregated and watch the enthusiasm procure their mouths. It relies too much on my amusement and lack of patent clerk confidentiality. Be rooted to the spot or move in droves that do not exceed the square formation. Home is a concentric circle that broadens at the prospect of meeting celebrities without tax evasions or mysterious surnames that maybe perhaps link them to the Welsh Mafioso.

                The columns are making eyes at your mother's fruit bowl and that just makes me sick with resentment. It fills my cheeks with brilliant mockery, it makes them burst without a curling iron or matrimonial courtesy. It is perhaps etiquette to regard the bridges in such a way in case they should take personal offence and ruin your cabbage patch with their laser eye surgery and various goods markets. I wish you to meet a god with more clout and considerably less throat medicine, mostly because my dragon's mother wouldn't approve and I really don't want to make her happy right now. It's a croon to be me sometimes, particularly when the minutes are drawing near the motorway and won't show signs of stopping for a quick cup of bollocks guardianship. I'll tell you how to go to place where nobody hears the whimper of patronising sex, it's somewhere near a cherry tree and all its cheery foliage.

                The ground is pounding with blood and my script will not opine bullets, won't discuss the merriment they might bring from a drought of tangerines. It'll help you go off into the wilderness, maybe even with a pair of handy little mittens but that's as much as it is expected by anyone to do. The ruler has no time for bubbles of logic or respectability, it feels too much like conspiracy and now we are getting over that for the sake of the kiddies. America taught us well, taught us how to do the samba and the rumba and the back-aching itchy ball syndrome flip trick. Under the Moorish principality lies its thirst, it's inequitable slurp for fiery medicine and all its fringe benefits. it rattles the shit cakes and usually leaves before the military begin to notice their gold tops are gone.

                You see all that? The stars are winking out, they just want to a good reason to curl up with the milk of ages and let rip at the bread of wasps. The heavens are a place for celestial break dancing, the sort that disappoints so easily. Leave it out, why don't you.

12/04/2013 - LOWER ECHELONS

                Lower echelons open my heart like a haunting, open my arms like a bruising. Watch me grab the seniors and shoot the detectives with my sharp set of heart diseases. It may well be savage but it doesn't concern me or conclude my wariness. Going off the boil is all we can do in such a blue, unforgiving environment as this now that the deputy has dropped his details and gone out with the fridge light. 'Tis jubilation and serious at that, critical to heart surgery whilst also immune to the Sun's eternal rays. I separate the scalpels from the boys and kiss a radioactive skeleton or, as we call it, applying pressure to skittish games. You are purchasing the witness and all his valuables while the stick figures waltz with radioactive tuberculosis.

            I am opening out to cavernous honeycombs and lonely old gif weekends. Choking the lower states just makes a saturated buffoon out of the widowed and possessive. I saw the switch and pushed the aches into the blade rings so as to teach your haystack a lesson without repercussions. The aim is to make you think your pretending but you're actually in fact absolutely not. Ever. The round of animation matures my culpability and vivifies her immortal presentation. Beaming the chest to beyond the Turkish border causes me to throw bombs at your grandmother's window. Deduction, destitution and detritus simplify the tassels of wenches, those who seek to defy my gluttonous masculinity. It sickens me like footballs to the rosemary bush. It just comes out rich, too rich like your animalism.

            It's a powerful day to be truly bearded, you don't even require a cause these days so it's perfect for afternoon strolls all over your lawn and perhaps some of your neighbours. It is the fizziest hair I know and runs well against bathwater that hasn't quite verified its qualifications yet. Home sweet vehicular transport refusal. I am volume and do not fling pyramids into cylindrical questions. It's a respectful form of fortitude, a superb sizing up of the masses. There isn't a bad photo of the lot and I would wind the pipes again just to view the passageway ahead of those steely-eyed cockerels. It is truly stunning to hear your ukulele again. It keeps me straight.

            So much has relied on this moment to be a festering rover to bag ladies, so wear it well. A various selection of teas shall be proffered to the tumbling skyscrapers before they give up their brickwork entirely to the beasts that dress in silent particles. Your cup trick will not suffice for this grand closing, nor will it even help lift the curtain. There is a sickening thud every time you slip your hand into the doorway or awning, there are balls up and stalking promiscuous impressions of former dorm roommates. It's a feather to come, a thing to say 'thou' to and never feel bad about retrieving the lies. You see that? Those yoghurt pots are tumbling.

11/04/2013 - HE WAS BORN INSIDE A JAIL

He was born inside a jail to a bunch of fiends known only as the Tree Stumps. They took doors, turned them into hand grenades and lobbed them repeatedly at someone who's bound to be the titular colonel. They met in a seedy bar and took things from there, slipping out to the wasteland and drive-thru that inevitably follows. He appeared at a crowded reefer party in order to solve the problem of his heady existentialism. The suggestions resembled social anxiety and gentleman's agreements that never went to California for justification. You good kind people are always so awkward towards him and never really ask why he swallowed a beanstalk in the first place. It was childhood issues. It was a car accident that didn't happen but should've happened. It was a rushed event that left everyone perplexed.

            Now we all realise he is a secret agent and therefore must address his behaviour tentatively and without prior disposition so let's maybe tone down the questions he's raised through asking. He taught us a way of communicating without limbs or orifices and the mind-numbing stupidity of it is we can never thank him for it. The simple action itself caused a mighty furore all across the internet, one that involved much swearing and fire-breathing lesbianism. It led to our mutual breakdown and the cruisers taking advantage of that fact with their closed-minded sensuality. They killed you in your sleep and forgot to kiss you goodbye when they pulled up their trousers afterwards. You bitches have a problem with that? I know I do. He was all over the weather forecast and I guess that's where the eulogy really officially started. A dead man is always cast among the rainfall and then blown aside by the rosebushes and other complications. Our mothers did what they could, our fathers wore shirts and our sisters and brothers went up the ladder to watch a punk concert. It was rude but at least they got a megabyte out of it.

            I suppose this is the time we all guess he will be coming back to throw paint on the furniture and tear out the hidden microphones purely out of sexual perversion but that's a fallacy as well as a phallus. Your mind is tawdry today and leaves me the toady to your antics. It's simply a crime to carry on, don't you know. Don't you care? Probably in the same way as the others, underneath the belly of your memory. Beneath the spots of boozy time we'll remember how he put off wearing dresses to become a President of this golf club or that hotel room. We'll recall the grass he grew to prove his theorems and the dropping heads he spared to save bloody-faced children from their premium addiction to Sarsaparilla. It was a long, curmudgeonly walk but he took it and never once sold on the panties. He glared all the way to his graveyard and shot down our tears. He shall be drunk away.

10/04/2013 - A GLANCING BLOW

A glancing blow to the ‘run for it’ and you can probably have it both ways. So many alibis go upside down in the face of topsy turvy sexuality. It’s a braggart’s wisp, the editor of normalcy and normality and so many floors going down. The doorframe is not a way to make tricks wheeze along the repertoire. The mind-numbingly banal roof is crashing down and bending unto the will of the pretext. My head is whirring and pretending it doesn’t droop dresses all over its madness or fashion, it really makes me supreme. Walk away from elimination and the left eye must come down just a fraction or the right will launch a career in espionage, dollop by dollop. People with desks are made of texture and distilleries that weren’t allowed past their bar exam. How the tune haunts the thought of never getting in, how it makes you meet the boom without a cup of coffee to hand. Not a day, not a day, not a day to be a controller without rumble functions or sealed windows to ridicule. Leave the levy to be rude and wet while the detectives file down the cabinet to make their clients bowl out. Three hours nod off to my prickly ears and frisk the quiet with half-gnarled fingernails. Solutions will need a few angles to become a straight thing, a quick phone call to Davina and her yo-yo report. It’s very high-profile, on a need to eat basis that requires classified sailor hats and whistling newspapers. I quit living beside the brooks in order to protect the washing machine’s little secrets from exposure to nitrate oxide. It’s a sarcophagus born too late, risen too early. The chains of days keep minutes on Mescaline. I struck down the swan with great, unforeseeable wrath, adamant that I would find epidemiology for fruit bats.

Opting out of cop out divisions like grinning chair legs and all of their vile lurking babies. The details rearrange insanity so as to make it a dustcover for my joy. How the bees buzz along without a hammer aside or a conjugal wheel. What happens if I never went newer, narking off the bitten mortuary for the mild. The phone rings at an exact moment and keeps your thought from sending waves to primarily oval-shattered munching rings. Three cabinets are no good for the outer clouds, like the third plank of wood to bring you morning writhing. Lasting miracles dematerialise the carpet of our magical nasal rectal amazement. Who could do all that to December? Why is this a textbook explanation? What are we saying to the artist? The killer wore gloves that he kept beneath the gun. It’s a grisly conclusion to draw, even for a Hispanic cleaner quotient. Freshened buckles curl out of positive self images and undo the puzzles of appetite. The power to be a surprise keeps me from clashing manic sounds together and ape calls that generally wouldn’t suit an environment such as the back alley of a garden state.

09/04/2013 - THIRST CAT

Thirst Cat lives on a daily basis, rounding the spool with celebrated deception. It keeps its colours dipped in 1-2-3 safety procedures and just will not let go of the petty handles. The Cat washes its winks in kisses and he has a sister to lose shortly. It's all working parts and spiralling planetoids - it's good to have a name for reddening opportunity.

            So what about you? Still watering down tickets one would imagine. Let's just take out the trash and throw out the pillar boxes while we're at it. This, of course, is Erasmus speaking. Appreciation was a herbicide that was slipped into a toothpaste cocktail. That was the work of the grandiose. Thirst Cat and all of its pyjama collection.

            Oh gee, the trainer sneaks as the sneaker trains. Put pressure or virginity will wipe out ahead of the people of Earth. Not the citizens, the people that cry out against constancy. Bromance is a tool used to keep the skinny jeans and baby grows apart. There is no other support. There are rags to line up but we'd much rather play in the dust.

            Who is abusing the Thirst Cat? He is a she when keeping the straws. I know because I tried to rob him once with Neil, all we could manage was the spanners and a few workmen. Renew the glitz of mean-hearted wagtails or we'll say more. That's not the kitchen nor is it a bear trap. I have the muscles for a panic reflex. Let's say today for the bromide solution to be slept in. Stop tapping off the tank, kid.

            Madre hoops the fringe with the letter 'y' at the wedding reception of revenge. There isn't a ligament for the thousands or the tarnished parcel. Oh, the game shows are coming to co-operate widely. Luckily I don't even have a brother to bother while wearing unseemly tuxedo. Give the turn section  a thumbs up or a middle finger salute. We'll have some laughs and laughable excuses. That could be because the lever of the young has been left both ajar and agape. I am abrupt and I'm sorry that this has to be so good.

            Poop all over crustaceans and listen to the sound of grapes tumbling from our paternal lips. Damn the drudgery that could so easily be making sleep a potent responsibility as opposed to a timeless classic. So many stops though, the tunnels are squeezing and reprising their priors. Thirst Cat is making babies with its fisticuffs. Maybe not the shadow puppets but fine enough to rage against. This is what happens when you insist on spamming the combos. Be nice and sweet when you drop your imperatives. Back when Thirst Cat was a Quenched Kitten it had rudimentary knowledge of all the most ridiculous borders, now it has felt tips and cool shades that refuse to do its bidding.

            Whores are talking to thirty-year-old faces about Ipswich and all its promises. Whatever you do, don't get involved. Run.