Dark brown stools come calling for
the barricades, shattering the whistles, battering the self-defence please,
marching in hazmat suits, prising in blossom cracks, jerking ironing boards,
erasing semi colons, bartering with semantics, trooping with Rohypnol, crawling
on belly and nose, creating dictionaries, darting garrottes, slipping past the
squelching roughhouse, making much ado
out of the third, dribbling hairdo, cruising along the harbour side, playing
the piano sweetly, being voracious, vitrifying the Quasimodo, stroking the
panda, diving into headfirst schedules, paying off the larceny groups, teaching
the little African monks to sing out of tune, pounding on ounces of drumsticks.
Going away.
I'll clatter and clatter and clatter
and then possibly clunk when you're least expecting it but expecting it anyway
because you're bored and perhaps a little drunk around the edges. Then and only
then shall I paint the town red, a poppy red that works down the shaft and
doesn't pay toll vicariously. It's mortifying with its ringtones and incessant
love-making options. I want to go home and down the entirety of my DIY orgasm. I
wear it because it's comfortable, like the hairs on the back of your lovely
neck. It rasps with the memories you keep in your locket and all that bedding
you keep it safe with. It's petty, so petty but I will turn it over for you.
The sky, that is. I'll make it into milk
for you. The dead shall rise and hog the karaoke machine but at least you'll
have time to spoil your tea with brandy.
It's almost as if you drew jewels
all around your nape but only for boorish Easter egg hunters to find. The
bitches will sniff it up I'm sure but they'll feel pathetic for it. That's what
long work days do to men with butterfly nets. Life keeps the roof down and
makes you forget that it ever was there. Just like the time I drank like the
Queen's consort, like the fish of proverbial history, like the Tuesday
afternoon not spent cross-stitching, like the time I didn't listen, like the
time she listed seven reasons, like the time you lost the train in your hamper,
like the time our son went down on April Topiary. It's a sulking day for the
Templars, methinks.
Widdershins keeps the pavement from
falling down and turning into perfectly-formed homunculi or rosemary beads. The
equals sign was implied with heavy quotation marks honking around it. The
handle has broken off and I think I'll break it off too, with the cactus dream
that is. I can't stand standing around in desert landscapes without an
umbrella, it makes me feel distinctly un-British. It makes me sleep with one
leg in the air, ankle gradually twisting backwards just to prove a point my cartilage
wouldn't want to make notice of. Sorry
if I lost it with you there, I was just wondering about the menus that keep
flying through our doorstep, such as the one about the blurbs on the back of
cereal boxes. I'll take your mother-in-law there, I think. Yeah, your dearest
bit of cold.
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