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.
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