04/04/2013 - POWERING THROUGH THE DANCE OF DRUSILLA

Powering through the dance of Drusilla and all her hard edges that twang when you flick them. It's a dance of death, not Edith, Edith's waltz is quite the nicest way to pick up fat birds. I'll be there in 74 minutes provided you can keep your knackers safely unlocked and your Welsh sensibilities in check. It's a good afternoon for swanning about, don't you think? It's a good afternoon to watch the evening roll on tenterhooks. My mind is pounding at the thought of last night, when you couldn't hold your breath to please your mother's iguana. He's a scaly bastard who flick's babies' ears when your mother is too drunk to say otherwise. You know why I'm saying this, I'm saying this because your mother once threatened me with a steam iron, brandishing it like it was her own hate-encrusted vagina. Needless to say I dropped a pyramid on her and left it at that.

            So I left you a letter to send to yourself when you're sick and tired of playing the double bass. It's hardly encouragement but at least it lets you know why I've been wearing your mittens for a month without some much as a 'sorry, kid'. You've known for a while now that fingerless gloves just aren't doing it, they make me intolerably lucid to the creeping pansies of the South of France. It makes me wander the streets without a name or a shoe size. You were right when we first started out, I am an aimless sun of a gun that done told you once you had no right to be on my sexy little property. I'll insert the fudge into your blow dryer before I let you out of my sight, you explosive-faced minx.

            I am heading to Budapest next, to dress up as another iguana that has even less desire to conquer the litter box. I will become the iguana because of my method, I shall wear its face like it was my grandmother's. Before I abandon you I think you'll notice that I've detached all the erasers from the 2B pencils so as to make you fret and do your thunderous jiggle. The one that gives me turning eyes and a fielded vision of your tapestry. I'm not back on Tuesday, I won't be back on Tuesday but I shall make an appearance in the cameo of your evening. In that moment where you unzip your pants to take a whizz, I shall bind the crotch with sticky glue and make maple syrup out of your adrenal gland. My perversions are what keep this roman's alive.

            So I'll just tidy away my jet planes and motherfuckers and dress up in my capes and wings and fly to the forgotten land. I'll probably still have a tail when I get back but I'm sure you'll just choose to use it as another love handle. I'll squirt the desert sand at the thought of application. I will, you know, I will.