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.