31/05/2013 - THE INCENTIVE

The incentive is to go and chomp at the dimming switch. The incentive is to marvel at the tape recorder while it recites your roof fitting measurements. The incentive is to become a helicopter filled with painkillers. The incentive is to lay the cable. The incentive is to become Danish assessment records. The incentive is to open a coffee shop specifically catering for barristers. The incentive is to become balmy in retrospect. The incentive is to rule out yodels entirely. The incentive is to wear lasagne. The incentive is to nick chips. The incentive is to pratfall. The incentive is to have luck for it. The incentive is to grab a spoon. The incentive is to become bereft of the lovelies, of the luddites, of the left-wing progression. The incentive is to monk. The incentive is to lose paper hats and release the chocolate stain. The incentive is to replicate conditions of the same hashed experiment we've all already tried and failed at. The incentive is progression of the highest order. The incentive is the kingmaker. The incentive is the witless banter. The incentive is the drive to do things okay. The incentive is to slide seamlessly in and out of practicality.

            The form runs dry from that point onward. The material witness was out of doors by then and got hit by a haymaker to the complex. Withdrawal was the initial symptom, then it spread to the feet and Riga Mortis tied down the curtain, laced it with hereditary poison. The witness slunk down into a new age of Sunday weather, they became one with the plus sign all over again. There are of course far worse places to be in one's life but to go without a whistle is to sign a death sentence with your own gift token.

            The Thane of Service applied for hair and makeup as the last test subject became a liquidated version of circle time. It was critical to mentor the Deadly Montgomery, the man who lives under Mr. Thank's hat, because his stationery is the finest delicacy for the living, flowering filing cabinets. Get a foothold in this galactic positron and your rights will shoot up along with the price. To be allowed £6.50 for depression photos takes the fool a little bit over his fashionable goals. There is indeed a ballpark and the bridesmaid are jockeying the lapels into works of spectral art. Flowers for the ceremony: rhododendrons they think.

            Save a hundred if you think it's grand. Scamps go out of the parlour for different reasons that dither across dream logic. Seventy four puppets riding the pulpits. Eighty nine times to be taken. Sixty six marshes off the beaten track. Five hens in an offshore drama. Fifty five elocution lessons to be tied down with tenterhooks. Zero conglomerates waiting in the holdings. Thirteen sticks of formaldehyde  shoved into the tapeworm of the mouldy star. Forty seven death defying archery posits. Ninety six thousand, eight hundred and one marching orders out of town.

29/05/2013 - THE THUD RESCINDS

The thud rescinds its problem from last summer so I’ll trace the gentleman’s pretext. Your onscreen persona is getting mean and narked off about most political situations. They lurk in the undergrowth and wash socks in lightning rods. Privilege is in a really good place FYI: someone should have been beside the ocean being crazy in the wind. What are they on? The rapture is holding down the lost like a messy Christmas treat. I need my focus back on proving the genital point for public domain walking. I am an opposite; you are a mangled flicker of somebody’s knob. The signing is a fish in the deadly quasi matrimony of my child’s cot. Do you care about the cruelty of the bottom line or the slippery demo? I feel bad about screaming divulgence. Cancellation is lidless monkey funk when stunted by the abysmal van’s whore.

Linking Kwanza to the two days that nobody foresaw or understood. The bandit is a pasta diaper and the hunky torched cars that ensued. The man knows me better than the cinema of musicality, the entire cinema of unfurling windows. I went running by the country road and a little stranger told me about Mr Thank’s potential dislike of the rockery. This made me a thane to be racketeered with, a veritable venerable day worker. Idiocy comes by the crumb load and there’s nothing to be done about the nasty remarks or the inherent pessimism that comes with even mentioning such a statute. Ballads go on for hours in her close personal dressing room, especially whilst bonks and bonks and bonks and gender neutral anniversaries.

You should be saving the pancakes for Germanic notation rather than putting on a black face to be over it. I am a human being, not a bloody pigeon! I am losing sponsorship by the tiger cub! That one’s a puzzler for the apologists among us. Then again the phone services are just being stubborn and retracting via greyscale hurt. Do we proffer or do we just host in hot dog trucks? I’m living in green engagement, unburdening my simply proven invasion for a little while at least. Let’s not worry about it, Papa. The continuum is breaking over me like a celebrity on a comatose patient, taking pictures by the fluorescent job. Holsters for the Sheikh! Now! Gratification comes by exact constancy though our junk keeps the gormless nonplussed and phantom. This is normal in a lock-picking bike: Americans of 50 or over are regularly filled with mercury.

Keeping the pies sleepy is a surreal experience, one that involves holograms and thumb ring whistles. I’ve never seen a pair of sunglasses appear in the middle of a menstrual cycle, I’ve never seen it go far outside my own head. You all brought this on yourselves with your Armenian investment bankers and technical prowess. We will be inside your scarf impression for the remainder of the golden mortality. My feelings are warped by subterfuge and mollycoddled in separate, whimsical climates. Yes, that is a passage filled with water. Technically.

28/05/2013 - THE SOAPY CLOUD ACTS

                The soapy cloud acts as a getaway from the creative orgy. To try another way is to flex indecency and get called out for being a tramp with no industrial background. Mnemonic sparks are flying from the underside of the cloud and, in doing so, drive all centrifugal forces out of the way. Jerks. Their testament is all fuddy-duddy and mistress-spanking. It's nowhere near as unique as Spatula Science or Fascinating Philosophy. Doodling fortune is an indecipherable right, a wimpy argument to throw in the face of farce. How the wind plucks the trees for its aphids only to spread them like so much rosary bead emanations. Today I think you know what I mean. Today I say canals and you'll recognise just how bland I'm being.

                I could call you dear reader but this isn't a self-help column. There are trowels to be curtseyed and downy fur to be blasphemed. Let's be honest here, we'd all much rather irradiate farmland than cultivate a traditional market value. A couple of moths always get in the way anyway. The tailspin is a historic expansion that breaks the United Kingdom into a sequence of lazy Bond themes. My hopping is the root cause of this million dollar skill and therefore must be tasked and taxed accordingly. Rapid change is a Nordic concept, a wonderful way to ruddy the cheeks and defy character flaw. I'll graduate eventually. I'll see Steve and Neil and Erasmus and that inglorious Mr Thank be strung up from the wall bars, to be tickled to death by phantom dolphins. It will be doggerel and self-effacing. This is such a gentle rainfall for my soiled toga. I am so fortunate to be standing in the Southern breeze without my underwear catching . So far as we know this is seen by everyone with large screen televisions.

                Vice and soap are one in the same, you can't get one in one eye without the other lashing out at the other. It'll charge the principle and irritate the girl with the laptop who's just trying to get her work down but the damn electoral debate keeps distracting her with surreptitious farts in cars. A hundred years or so later, she'll be a wastrel angling the Patagonian potholes just to ascertain natural size. What could even be done with a detachable penis? Development would just stop and wink at the audience in such a way that lowers ratings. This may be the beginning of honesty, the great and final pardon for truth. The paper dolls apply Spatula Science and watch the fizzle go directly into the movie star's smaller eye along with a cool sixty five million if he doesn't watch his language. It is a microphone, after all. Get around the problem with crotchety sniffs instead. Then again the heifer is making a grandstand for the torch in the underground passage because the soapy cloud has ridiculed the exits. Believe me when I say that creative orgies are a fabric that swaddles.

27/05/2013 - IVORY FAN SERVICE

            Ivory fan service makes drainpipe trousers for Pappy. He is very particular about the way they weave their argument and doesn't abide the felicitous squabbles that divulge too many syllables. He was pleased to meet him that one time, is that acceptable? He was pleased to meet him because the troglodytes were gathering and the revolvers were all heading left despite the cathedral's obvious placing in the standard events schedule. He changed coats before shaking Pappy's hand and the knife was securely fastened to his crotch muscles, ready and perhaps a little eager to strike the yellow British scuzzball. Get it right, Pappy said. Back shortly, our hero said. He didn't reconstitute it word for word. It was worthy and fresh but clunky. There was the weird sort of dynamic that is just not interpreting their relationship correctly.

            Somewhere on a mountain there was a jewellery shop that wasn't even slightly original when the hint of a twist comes around. Needless to say, it was lame. The heat caused him to black out and then, of course, Pappy returned with a sexy sedative called Marissa. She spliced his genome and thrust him back into the box naked murky crayons. It was a multiple tragedy, a thousand mystics heard the screams of patented colour crumbs as they triggered their own synaptic reactions. It was horrifically piercing, a wing slamming against the terraform requisite. I made it as yackety-yak as potentially could carry me but the refrigeration had instigated Pappy's fart sequence. The skies filled with quitting superstars, lit up by their temptation to strut their fresh jester stuff. The guns gleamed with perfection as they made the tyrant go purple-shaped and stapled down to the mast. It could well be the sun pudding, it could well have been the striptease of somebody's instinct. My guess is Marissa was acting under orders from McManus and his expressive silent partner Neil. Erasmus sat this game out, he had nothing against Pappy and there was a stir fry to be overseen.

            The newspaper was very sensitive about the entire issue which is often a precursor to a dark hypothesis. The soothsayer came the next day and wiped away our intrepid hero from Marissa's tip, and fed it directly into Pappy's hungry heel. There was always something amiss about his gait, almost puffed out road kill. His armaments came off in soggy lumps which were then pushed into the corners of the nearest reset button. There were red flaky bits all over the desk when it was done but at least the electric current didn't turn subatomic. It didn't hurt anybody which is within our regulation rules, no circuits had to be shelved or put into the back of the truck. The best defence is a grappling hook to the tit, it shatters all expectation and brings about Indian necklaces that float off into the ceiling. The mole pushed the root canal into the undiscovered hemisphere, sidelining the womanly data cube. The womanly parts disappear...

26/05/2013 - I'M NOT ONE TO ILLUSTRATE

            I'm not one to illustrate the script for you. Arcades are my thing, the place where I put my high feet up and fiddle with my toes. It's just a joyous place to snap the wavelength, to tinker with the visor plants. Classical languages are rather spectacular when run through with an electrical current, I suppose that's why the submarine is a waste of carbon dioxide. Let me be thrown away like easy waste and a powerful eighth, I need the geothermal energy. A convergence of two tectonic plates eliminates my narcoleptic goddess with a hotspot of geyser lust. It's the most Parisian thigh I can think of, I can contemplate.

            Who says that still is the latest underwater restaurant? Liberalism on the San Francisco Bay. You know one should always have seventy irons in the flaming furnace of restoration, it's a practical outlet for emotional disposition. When do we go to the almost never? Why only sometimes? The answer is cheetahs! Approximate Cheetahs! Nothing here is truly itself when the crutches come down in subtle judgement. Wear the kingmaker with Gods on a belt, latch them into the fastened place and watch as the cylinders shout their African hellos. Do not see the Lords or his/her endings of speech. Feel ready/thrust loneliness/choice age/never go west/always wander/form attachments/let them go/possess grand speak/see the chisel/remember however/go psychic like auras/great hate/strangers passed/weapons of product/chemicals nigh. The blown and the left are vengeful ghouls. Mastodons and I take light and blunted instruments to the tortured tormentors of defeatism. Grapple me with mark masters, do the Charleston and match the eaten jamboree. Was she nice to be a lasting impression, a honking fiery wench. I attend to the task in hand and listen hard. Tampers are against me, just like the linear beings in their beats.

            The vectors see the real goggles slapped on aslant faecal matter, resist my consequent urges and heard out fear knots. The wintery cloak parts the eulogy with logical standards and empty prevailing. Please don't prattle on about the odyssey, please go out and fetch some garbage bags before the co-ordinates turn to Hindi. My castle is falling like a beautiful dream in dank neighbourhoods. How to forage has never been so in demand, has never been an hour in the making. My hands are wrapping each of the buttons in a cocoon of silken hemp but they can't last the whole ninety yards of misfortune.

            I am old and beholden to the computer speak, to the Javanese witter and the Mesopotamian lark. I wish that this wasn't as great as they say it will be but that is for the furniture to decide and not for the deadly piranha of parted blinds. It's a cause to snore, a powered down party that engulfs the very essence of an outcry, smothering it in its own precious brand of blackened milk. The velvet guns are readying the battlements, the gunners are out the back having a quick tea break before proceedings come to blast their skulls away.

25/05/2013 - THE DAUNTLESS THANK YOU

                The dauntless thank you and cherished warning of critical damage. It breaks the muster and infers the impact, like carnage in fellas. It could just be enough time to hurt the big metal man, maybe long enough to burn a hole through his middle quiver.  Wait a go, puppy helmet, wait a bugle-picking minutia! What happened to the peel that was promised? All the peel and not just the rind. Floating along the Venice depository? That can't be foreclosure. Spidery left hands are working against the edge of my reverberating soul. Long hair is a massive trouble for me when Ragnarok slams down. It slams down every month or so, though without intention or marvellous pastrami. It's a dark place to be a homosexual train wreck at the heart of an empire. The biggest stardust comes from the apocalyptic ovals. Time to make love with the ego and it's shoddy messiah.

                It's a numbing composition when it comes down to the pallid monstrosity and it's tendency to harp on about comic elocution. I'll wait in the sky as the other ones come down to grace us with their worthwhile telltale usury. They tell me it's snarling at the damp doorways of boogie procedure. The only way out is to tie one's shoelace and back away from the elf's emblem. You can tell from the guitars that this will become a destined night of romping patter cake. I do hope this isn't a case of holding onto unascertained background theology because I'll go right now and row with the snout of the songwriter. One quick punch at it goes out for coffee and a fleeting handshake. It's similar to a solvent, a seeded pretension where the cabaret bars close before the children set out to fight. My orange highlighter is at one point and my sensibilities are at another. Which will collide with the matador first? The electrocution is a collaboration for this gargled soul that sits at the heart of my palm.

                Follow the pigmy the right way and you'll probably never turn back for cocktails or transfusions. Never need no nincompoops to tally the trifles with the tape measure. It all tangles my feet anyway. Doing it was probably a fallacy in my light bulb brain. Perhaps we should bring it back! Perhaps! Zap! It could take a tickle with it for the long haul. I sincerely hope that respect hasn't quite come to that yet. I haven't even worn my Palaeolithic shoes yet. The shysters will get a real show before the opening act encapsulates the evening with a paragraph. The letter is fussy and its columns just prolong the aptitude beyond necessary parameters. Calculus is very peculiar when one thinks about it. Why make hands flicker just to be certain about amounts and travesties. Chaos deserves its pudding and we're depriving it throughout this palace. Behold the pickled jars as the gospel choir bops along to the rhythm of a deadened water droplet symphony. Going the whole whore hasn't even stopped being a thing yet.

24/05/2013 - THE GOOD GENERAL

The Good General lies in Guinea. He had a suicide for a nephew because he knew his office, the women he wooed and banged within those clear shot four walls. How do you pass that up? Who for? Someone terrible and charming surely. We go tomorrow night and say hey to the wicker sinker. You've got to be realistic about the odds here, you've got to figure out what makes us do what we ever did. What a spiky hair cut on such a small adage, glowing for miles and miles and the big headed lug who has got things to substitute. Wives to the Bower! Keep them away! Expression is for the windy fireball traps. How could we keep them in this day and age? Say thanks mostly.

You should always pick at the balloons, be effete and lactate carefully onto the militia. Everybody move for the mine and be sure to mince your muscles with the flimsiest missiles. Buying the creeper invigorates your gadget collection so that your prescription turns out all gooey. Centipedes rang and rang and rang underneath the paving stone as the last Giggle War broke out. I can't be sure that I'll be desperate enough to drop the other one's off. In short we need a booster for the old credit card. Move stuff across and easy goes the eleven candy candles. Put me out of my mind for a bit with dialectic Mescaline. When will we  be ready to murder thirty thousand skinny-faced bitch queens? When the graffiti becomes barely transient. So get out of here.

Tread with lips and horn-rimmed glasses as we go out with Puerto Rican massage clients. The brass buckles under the screwdriver certainty and gets blow to big burly bits. The exposition is made of in-crowds and clean-up crews that don't muffle and mesh appropriately with line-ups. I'm glad of the engagement but such consequences are hovered and dotty. He'll explode the diligent pumpkin and indicate the Ayatollah. Lacking self awareness is a crime past this point in the locker fields. Sunshine. Jazz. Nanotechnology. The corn maple thinking of upset knife wielders disrupts the cognizance. Me personally and my own infliction of caffeinated TWONK degrade the hammer's underside. Erasmus didn't even know he was born back then but his teeth were stained a second longer than necessary. It's as hilarious as a bear hunt at the seaside.

You had your arse go missing with glossing embossed barrister jam. She said that that would be fine and dandy and that she couldn't agree more about the desk. By lunchtime tomorrow I will ask the interesting quaff of Interpol. The day off would understandably be unfortunate. Get your monkey quartz to misread plenty of these pig-headed gas metres.  Adequacy chuckles. The file, as they say, mustn't be completed. That's a bagful like the centre of his broken nose. It would be like a DCI as it wouldn't be a wee HQ. It takes priority like a bark out of a Munch painting. Mortuary makeup and et cetera.

23/05/2013 - HINDRANCE RENDITION

Hindrance Rendition is a hilarity for the haunted and rectally challenged. Switchboards are lurching all over the checkers, making the thrumming sound more like humming.  Of course, you haven't been up to much aside from the good old trusty hardback recitations. Of course. Saturday is the day you go on the lam and fry kebabs until your socks melt off. The green is a dreamy nightingale off on its duly noted march, making stories along the way. I think there was a song scattered on the way to the jam jar's hair. The bushel is quite tempting to those without a key card, it's like all the fun of a donkey ride without having to confirm somebody's identity. Neurosurgery is kind of like that in a way that has manners of speaking possibility. Nobody wants to scupper this possibility, it could be the last one till next Thursday. It is weird seeing the floor wired like that, without support or a studious marksman spreading the lug. Fortunately it won't take him more than an hour to see through to the end of his dalliance and become a lion of pure lamplight like one of us. Conformity makes the necklaces a seen eventuality.

Today we were ragged strangers to be made out of published material, to be slid all over the pages and typed onto the wall. Thrust a pin through my left toe and you'll see the effects of a good afternoon's wank. Beggars make up games to pass the time and some of them aren't that bad so long as you keep stocked up on liar trilbies. I'm off. I'm off. I'm a matter of fact option. Saturation is not a possibility for a statistic in my shoes. Do shoes remain related to the cow? This is the one aspect of my data bank that has never been filled. Circuits are ticklish and not worth whizzing around most of the error report. I'll soften the blow while it's not coming off as enough to transpire. The Hindrance Rendition is gaining on itself, it's borrowing breath to paper and towel down its drawbridge. The thing won't stand, of course. You'll unzip your trousers and drink it like malt before construction is even complete. That's the way to have a hook nose and use it. Science fiction movies were a good towel for a while but then the specials came out and made septic tanks roll over all over the continent.

Gradual movements in the wrong direction fluctuate the depressive spirit in such a way that it devolves into a twat, twat of course being the operative term for singularity. The symbolism is a fort to be reckoned with, a bowling ball could get ground down to bearings and deft atoms that didn't hear the mating call. It's a conference of hand holding, a blackout spike to hear about mom, mum and all of their alternatives. Last time I checked, there was ten and I lost a hand in the process.

No I don't.

22/05/2013 - SAVED CITIZENS DESPAIR!

Saved citizens despair! The drill bit legends have been clouding up our mongoose judgement, slapping down hard on our capabilities in a mild climate. They go around telling us, informing us that this place is surprisingly easy to break into. We reply in the affirmative but with a pointy stick as punctuation. I have a trustee to do the spokesperson shit, she is a pterodactyl with buzzwords and makes me aroused with her basket collection. Business before basket cases, of course. All the way. I have my ties and you don't just let the pretty little knots go out to the revolver men. Because oh look a car!

            I would introduce the production line flint but the stubble is rushing and gushing with its own anguish portability. My spacecraft now has command over all future futuristic hen nights. I am a wolf of hungry deliverance and the library is my favourite edition to go for. The work is a proclivity, after all. Don't make me find a pizza base and I promise I won't ever mix up the CDs with kippers. It realises the Manchurian cranial mastery with a glowing row of fishy thumbs. The day is relaxing when we spend it in flashbacks, confirming all that was mentioned by the birds and their black bin liner. That's their totem, they pray to it and call it a bosom. Knuckles are covered in gashes whenever the words can't make themselves soft and squalid. I just thought that I should though.

            The maths are lodging the autistic equipment with dicks and blather. It was a hell of a pre-emptive accustom, a heaven of a receding hair follicle. We are attempting to rectify the dalliance with temperature enhancement and various other methods by which we don't get as far as we should do. It's like an American putting on a British accent it keeps the clothes on and maybe lathers them up a bit for the sake of patchwork romance. The time is a gender bender, a place where pocket watches go to summer by throwing back a thousand curtains with dramatic flourish. Photos can be taken in this sacred space but the wash out that happened last time has left everyone a little too cheeky for the widows.

            I'm going out for the sake of the Gods, going out to see if they wear open-necked shirts whilst eating shrimp cocktails. Change the world into a higher propriety, hug it into an inquisitor's uniform. That would go nicely with a belt of jealousy. Don't forget the cream, make it just a dash. If I see a clod I'll be bound to blow it off and into the face of a biochemist. Those gritty bastards owe me a monkey, not to mention all the proceedings that their funding ran into the ground. The kneeling comes next. The repeat cycle comes after it. The kidnapping takes us to the grave and covers it in yellow paint. Don't let me down, sweet investigative citizen chaps!

21/05/2013 - PERFORATE THE TURTLE VAN

                Perforate the turtle van and then lie in wait for the cold caller fear mongers. Am I ready to be loaded? Give us a sec, we're hurrying through. Fucking Jamaican Crossroads! Goddamn fibula weirdo! 'Tis better to jam out and say nice remarks than to bark yes for the government consultant. Bring us out of this funk or else we'll cut the cutlass and make like a fragrant comic book. That is hurtful and takes some time to get up to date again with. Chubby arguments fill my mouth with sandy marshmallows and Wandering Jews. Then again the changeling could be just coming up to refund the bursary with his reputable makeup wardrobe. You have to apply yourself or die in the virginal woods. How the stormy winds make hepatitis out of supernova helicopter skulls. Let's go to the basement and stuff the baby with beer bong technology. Cleanse while eating down. Cleft the mmmartyr  with smoky numbers. Run away the buckets or slash me with soda: the decision is yours and will not be conducive to mustard gags. Let's just say it's realllllly good, eh? Go on the lam and break my finger bone. Such a sorry Samoan analogy. Such a Sally Stem on the rinse.

            Get the right correction or go find an event to misconstrue. The misanthropes are missing the misty mire and moustache twirling in Mr. Thank's mild, middling misery. We're homing in on his prized bean collection, we're going to tie down his tweed and wheedle him out of his nylon socks. That's just a little of the sum summary for you to bathe in maybe. The detail is a detainment in a lonely soul musician clearly, it shivers in the missed opportunity of uppity in this maize massaging farce. The chances of bad drawings are limited to the brave and incompetent devotees. Do you have conviction? Do you have a family? Do you wear derrrrvishes and have a close personal relationship with the Broadcasting Assocation? We have a glitter patty just for you, my friend. We have a door that doesn't even fold seventy one times. The trick is to avoid the square conformity, as proposed by our impressionable prime minister. Glean that if you will do favours and gay parties.

            We insist that we were strung along by MPs and their most cherished mop semen. The dustbin rumbles with turquoise bank solutions. This is the forecast, the dirty fool's forecast. He has a forest to lose your children in should you wish to cut off their noses and trim down their trouser pockets. We serve to ask no questions and are prepared to operate on clean residences. We have a boil-in-the-bag nightfall, we can channel the shade of turnaround and all its princess magic. I suppose you might call us theatrical but we're not the only ones who employ bunny bears just to use and borrow their eyelashes. It was always a yeoman's plan, it was always a working equivalent that is according to debate.  

17/05/2013 - 20/05/2013 - I WAS HERE TO CLUB THE MINX

                I was here to club the Minx and to offer the Syrians a membership card in exchange for the head. I wasn't out gallivanting with the surly key rings with all their pet habits and secret atrocities in their safe deposit box. They told me it was a twenty first century thing and told me not to worry about the helix and how it might resolve itself with paper clips and Salvador Dali thumbscrews. The niche isn't open to interpretation and that's why I don't precede my station using each of the tools at my disposal. The interns are locked out and banging at the grown groan gaming castle keep, just in case the knights maybe forgot about their chainmail bits as well as a maiden or two. Either way the fence is drawing attention away from such spectacles and making great parties for the shaky cam dreary. It's a constant redundancy, a constant cheesy treason. No man lives outside anymore, not really, not with their bottom in the air.

 

                To imply the cretin was a chocolaty dessert, she removed her hand cannon and made him maim himself with the wet end. The tail was left on the table, cold and detached, so she used it to tickle blind folk underneath the vulva. It brings up.

 

                I said you play well, despite a handicap or two. I might even follow you to the ends of the earth if you provided a harmonic excuse that aligns each of our narrow boat contraptions at the exact same millisecond. It's all about the execution and you seem to be a proficient killer of tasks. There is certainly an air of Russian about you but not in the way you'd think. In previous years I joined MI6 and got their cream bun service running up to date. I even counselled the icing specialist with my rather heavy clipboard. I sent him off to a monastery to help clear up that foggy cesspool of his, to help him become the prisoner he has always wanted to be. It comes and it goes this sort of helpfulness, it has no evident correlation between time and panic. I'll make it common practice to bring the intelligence up by its ear and give it a good long sharpening. To say that I'm happy is an overstatement.

 

                She wasn't quite as nifty as the Minx but she did know the ins and outs of sexual displeasure. She was a master of flying over the mistress status, a true connoisseur of trumpet solos. She picks her teeth with shuriken and is probably standing over your little sister right now. Clean thoughts.

 

                It was a nicety to see you again. It started with a number on a ticket and now here it ends, with both tits on the kitchen table. Nigerian sweeps are throwing me all over the place to prove a point to my emergency neighbours, that I am fallible and that I do get flatulent. I ran him through with a rudder and then a ladle just to be certain he couldn't get up and mouth off again. This is why dishes are the most applicable ceramic bukake instruments to me, they are a thousand to one and probably won't be churned into necklaces. This life is filled with disillusionment, it makes British Engineers go yellow with marital problems. I'll shut a bladed facility down if only you'll accept me as a toga wearing grab ass family historian. I knew I got that from nana and her selective collection of douche bag trilbies. It's like a makeover and I'm not giving out the chicken just this minute.

 

                You forgot to take these also, the prattle from the edges. Draining the task is an invalid's form of humour, it breaks the wooden legs with graphology and lesbianism. The yobs have strong arguments to make against the dwindling opportunities and they have all been forwarded to you and your family of distributors. This is why the vineyard doesn't work but the arrow arrangement continually changes. The spite is a speck of cereal inevitability. My friend you slipped your mind again, put on a dreadful Irish accent, dressed yourself in sportsmanship. The overall image was opaque and drastic and nothing pleases me better. The wine is a universe of piracy and the glass stood in front of you is more of a vessel out of the dirty old splice party partition. I'll rouse the rabble and tug on the troops just to see that they're relevant in this day and age, unlike the prodding irritability. The communication link is a microcosm of my availability, it is a bridal sweep from wordy retribution. Hoopla gang culture keeps things complicated when you really think about it and stop thinking about the torn troubled men in their top hat sotto voce. I boiled the rice and never thought I would again. What a mistake, you might say!

 

                We're somewhere and going about the day in a topical tropical visitation, going about with a cold rose on each nipple and a dew drop kissing the marked man and all of his words of compatriotism. Dadaism is the crosshairs swilling and trilling over the guard robe in the deft water closet. Yes and yes we said okay. We added thank you as well just for the betterment of humankind and all that jazz. Devices for altruism, that's what they were trying to sell. It worked, of course, or else why would I have so many boxes in the atrium still? It's getting to be quite the trinity, don't you think? Or maybe trilogy is proportionate in this context? I couldn't say and wouldn't feel confident enough to proclaim instead.  The Minx has her gun pressed right up against my pudenda. I'm desperately trying not to figure it out in case the entire scenario turns out to be an orchestral piece. The romance is mush in the cold call of brass. Excuses, excuses. Terrific, terrific. My neighbour is grown.

 

                I didn't come here for meet and greet, I came because they offered me the chance of a wafer thin prospector. Roll those substantial infamies around your tongue until you tug your teeth loose and stop short at the sight of the leggy machine. Flags followed her wherever she went like a pair of binoculars in a box of irrelevant belongings, whispering about preparations and preparing more whispery features. I'll make doubly sure and grab the wrist of her foreman, trebling the campfire promise we made at the foot of the doctor's office. He was a locum and built fortifications to hand stuff over to the fidgeting dairy farmers. Their triad of silver tops raise tentative hands and fling their disembodied ring fingers into the bull's sauntering path. This is panic button territory.

 

                Debilitating, double bill annotating. Salubrious, sell your brie to us. Masticate, mask Ticking Kate. Preordained, preen or Diane ends. Destitute, this is it, toots. Malnourish, my new relish. Oh bladder, oh Benedict. This is the hiss, is the creaking branch foisted into gnarly magazine pouches. Ho, ho, yes.

 

                I keep matters occupied with a harness and thirty eight thousand four hundred and forty four makes of sasquatch appetite depressant. It's a perfect, perfect prefect to be wedded. I'm mast to mast maddening whenever invigilating the Virgo Plain, I am the milk and sugar Goth cart and don't you motherfuckers forbid it. Eh? Eh? The drag is clicking with turpentine bunker treatment as I try to make a home from a thousand garden fences that no sucker wanted to cling onto. They sealed it with their gelatine but never wanted it enough to become ghosts and poltergeists to keep ahead of this girly game we're so poorly marking out. The apron strings are moving in helix patterns while we roast our comic dominance over the parting clouds. It strikes me as complaining but then I hate all forms and methods of announcing one is 'well'. Our yeasty roadside is not very nice for the burning wasteland's schematics, not going to be accepted into the family of future town planning excavations. So go round the back of the sheds, cop off with a ditsy minder and shoot yourself with a butt load of camcorder equipment. It'll put the worst to bed with a donkey punch and perhaps a roundhouse cuddle. Rifle through the leaflets, see that I'm not wrong about all this. So long as it pertains to the money swiftly exiting my back pocket, I know what I'm doing with my runny little mouth. The lips form isles from the waste paper basket of 'save the date' cards and the char grilled kittens master the degree with evident turmoil. Let the sunshine banish your harsh knob and all of its co-conspirators right away before they launch their next attack on your pretty centre gravity. The pelvis holds the evil barrels, the miscellaneous bullet wounds, the partition blinds. The deadly lead does wonders for the barking dog that witters in the bottlenose runway carpet. So okay, come on.

 

                We can't tell you how we're dealing with this bipedal plant spot, we can only reveal that the release date is coming out from the behind of the political hard hat. We cast a vote and the note was dropped on a net and thrown into the calculated definition like some whipping boy being hired out as a venerable prostitute. The myriad is a Pyrrhic Case, a visitor's badge graced by grocery clerks and their deceased clientele. Watch the name change over and over again, watch as Erasmus becomes Emily becoming some sort of dinosaur. Heaven knows what happens to the biting hand. It becomes bitty, I imagine. This entire world is a smorgasbord to me, the sort that hasn't been cooked for eighteen days. The entity formally known as Emily might hold the door open for the steaks and, if so, I'll make an escape then. They'll never witness my daybook's turn as a vigilante, they'll never hearken the poetry in a decent try.

 

                I was here to sell out in an abstract monotony factory, thrusting the old heave-ho pelvis to the grind and grimace of pulverised meat chops. I came down to the production line to chase the Minx and all her tigress measurements to finally let out the universe from its turgid bottle of fragrance. In order to store the scent, I spat into a chain of clatter and chased the ensuing clitoris. The tails were yanked down hard and each of the blowhards revealed themselves by pulling down their makeshift hoods with quaint babyish fingers. It is a little known fact that the scream of a single hair is like a hammer tong to the wax museum: simply not done out of regional courtesy. Mayhem perfects its own plumbing, it changes the clockwork tiller from the left side to the right and over and under again. After a while it burns out the retinas and makes a mockery out of the porcelain rape case. It truly sickens. It sweeps itself alongside and up against the carpet tile and it leaves the place unsightly. How the police prefer it to solving actual crimes in a closed off button merchant community.

 

                That id is truth and lances do become matter transference devices we cannot deny nor would we dare to repeat the misgivings of our cuddly forefathers. The outlying danger is figurative at best, purely a oat in the eyeball of a fading goat breed. Snort the silver and slam down the brakes before the Sons of Sound Pound march out into the shooting fields to let stuff happen to them without resistance. My approach involves a letter opener and a three month old cardigan dumped and soaked in melted cartoon pencil cases. The Minx of course objects to malfeasance of such niggle-like proportions. She might have a viaduct to reel out or a monster's nook to turn over with pie crusting. It depends on the glossy aforementioned lady pit.

16/05/2013 - THIS ISN'T EASY

This isn’t easy for an apartment. This isn’t any easy apartment to know. Totting those guns make rainbows fly and turns them into ghastly pale imitations in the process. It isn’t nice when cockroaches drop their golden guns all over the tiled pavement. I told them not to fuck with me and they still did, just like the cactus and its hatchet honesty. The voice is like a kiss as the good times merge with prose. A gun is just a sigh do let’s just kill each other and have done with the entire rigmarole. I have tiger pulses shaving off the remainder of my shoulders; I have a clasp to withdraw when I do it. The harp leaves tremors and grief in goofy shutter cabinets, that’s how Troy was built. Questions were asked and charms never prospered.

                Intelligence leaves me to fend for the field agents and their undying obsession with coolant collie mixtures. Sugary heart attacks bulge along with the window panes and the deeply running shower. Home is not a place to wear leather jackets; it’s a damn cunt to become swollen in and nothing else. Spending the nasty with a surgeon’s face. A facial dirge if I ever did see one. Smearing blood types on lovely fingers and dilutes the face with various machinery and tensile terminology. Strains grant the tender one fish lips. Then I do indeed have a mentor in your good graces. I have a family of the untended and uninitiated; I have the prick in my aperture turnover. Whole haemoglobin doesn’t trust anyone with already sloping footsteps. God’s grace is the other day.

                She says she broke her tooth on a rye seed and all night they brought her home to be a hellish product of mischievous moaning. Wring your hands and that man lives to become a whore’s wept out seizure. LET ME TAKE A LOOK AT THAT WOUND BEFORE YOU ACT ALL UNFORTUNATE AND SHUN THE SIGNS OF DAY-SIZED UPLIFT. Where am I gazing? In the foolish direction? In the binned water feature? Suits blow over their pursed pocket lint and various micro managing buttons. The fray is like a friend in this patriarchy of flowing coattails. The fray is the friendly manner of absurdity making ripples and gestures in the tarmac. Bow low and this’ll be easy as paper tongues, as easy as snuffed statues of long since territorial missions to the Latin Platitude. You’re still on the right half of fun but that could easy go over to the matter of the pear and its feathery simper. What a predicament! What a tiny, laughable, cartoony predicament.

 

Iwenthometheonetimeandneveragainsawthegrammargetlessimpudentorplasticasthetimemadethelatterafiguretobereckonedlegallydead.

Thisisgrassyandcrazysodonotcrimethebosswithcrampeddeathsuspectsandpeachesofpapadematerialisinginabigballoffirearmboatriding.

 

I trump the very madness beauty let’s go unattended and blaring like leggy dress logic. The holes would be in the yacht if the Los Angeles Police Department didn’t try to throw duvet covers over my haystack complexion. Flames are simply divine and not worth missing when the transplant occurs whilst the chase for black clouds of smoke goes on.

15/05/2013 - WARRIOR OF THE FUSELAGE

            Warrior of the fuselage, tyrant of the ash, vehicle of the deacon. He was all these things and this here eulogy will make you beg for the trees to return your fine coats. Normandy got axed from the running and the host is currently clapping his cards together. Truly amazing. Seven. The doctors in the audience are one by one collating data for the betterment of this death sentence. Cuts marvel at blithering flesh and make pencils the fiercest probability in the running. When teeth become insurance, the pocks thrust cabins into the inner-city cuticle spaces.

            Exhaustion ties the time stream down to a shadowy box where all the plumbing merchants seem to get their ideas from and go in the long run. Pots and pans bruise their rosary discussion with utility and sense of bordered-up troubles. You have to wait that long, you have to lurk past the veins to blind the laughter properly and exactly. Stuff will turn out. Stuff always turns out awry. There's something in here with the four poster bed troglodyte.

            Go to sleep and reap the shades and all their murky glass one line persecutions. Perspiration is not an often done thing for the chocolate chest no pants dance of foggy measurement. Usurp the burial and you'll lose points with the ladies drastically. No toilet roll exceeds the grasp of bloody foreheads. Women go first and don't get set on fire for their trucks. The joined ones instead cut off oxygen with their repetitive cult defiance and penchant for pistola crutches. Writers are gnawing off the placemats with a crying sensation we call product placement in our various circles of thinking. Milk spews from their mouths as they make off with the final debt to stand in front of them. Oh rainy! Oh rainy! Oh what in the heavenly japes could kiss this rubbery figure? Ultra wincing lathers on the trouser press with adoration and frank shock. We're gonna buy her the buttons to see if her hands still dance with rigour when they've been lopped off good and proper like.

            The tapping on the chasm slices deep with stalling and not caring about self preservation or getting the hell out of there as one man to another. Locking up in cellars fill the milieu with bashful sofa cushions. We'll be fine in our infancy provided we stick it through to the natural wrap party. We're not going to pass out in any wimpy purloined turtlenecks. Don't you see they're a cacophony of slapped around haiku? Kill her if you can, before she suffers beyond all the capabilities of little girls. Help me be because of you. Hurt me before I pass out again. Mad people speak in gurgles but I'm definitely not of that bunch. I babble and pummel through chains to peep like wood shavings in the end of days. Torment can be like a cold sweat in the middle of a chainsaw funeral march. Trees and chains and shovels are alike in that sort of way. That would be a promise if things weren't quite so screwy and ugly-lipped.

14/05/2013 - SWEET DELICIOUS IDIOTS

            Sweet delicious idiots on the gradient are beekeeping to pay off their significant debts. The riddle they caused, still transpires to this day and makes little girl soldiers of us rough folk. The location is Nordic walking and the method of transport is warped forehead. The voyage from therapy to astral projection is one that chases translucent mints into gory-kneed oblivion. What the fuck is with the snow cone machine? Make hay while the bitch tries to solidify seven feet of ice cream. Resurrecting the hole and the cheerful chirp of idealism instantly marries the two together and sanctifies their union in sure fire lemonade destruction.

            Sweet delicious idiots mark the profession with their cry of togetherness, their yeasty bellow, their defunct property. The Russian Formalists did their best to keep these people under wraps but the potato rapture occurred nevertheless and cut off all sense of probability happening in this new and turbulent pile of Argon Crystals. The diamonds come from a hard place that even our martyrs refused to talk about. They always preferred enacting vengeance on the cherubim and seraphim, sort of like the icing sugar on the final telescope pointed towards midway housing districts. A la.

            The American Cargo keeps us alive and well preserved in the sauces of its own pleasant disposition. It does have its brickwork minutes but not enough to inspire a man to carry his own harpoon in his wife's gusset. The depth is phantasmagorical and does wonders for the complexion, particularly if you're used to a commoner's diet of horse shank and piano tooth. The theorem here is not to be grasped but disturbed from its place and origin in the thorny wallpaper. Shriven and yawning, Erasmus goes out onto the sand beach and passes out in front of blind expectation in the hopes that his hygiene will vastly improve because of it. He is, of course, a fanatic and deserves consecration.

            The American Cargo ruptures the legion with its own brand of comical styling and legendary semantic stretching exercise regime. The rubber tips come free with the quote and don't you ever let any sucker tell you any different, my son. Neil might be a smooth talker but he's not specialist when it comes down to the nitty gritty spasmodic modifications of modifiers. He really does live in Hull and yes you should feel he's right about some things these days. Miracles are bound to happen when you live in ketchup patterns and unthreaded tartan carcasses. The breathing room is not altogether comprehensive in nature, it is essentially a basically. If you were to ask your Mother about it she would refer you to your local GP and make him sponge you until you keep quiet about any further ventures in sick musing.

            Sweet delicious idiots abuse the American Cargo and leave it no better than netted trash bags, bursting through meshes and bulging in its own rotten romanticism. Sweet delicious idiots ride in the back of the American Cargo and shoot up to Dixie.

12/05/2013-13/05/2013 - IT'S NOT THE PETERING OUT

                It's not the petering out that causes the cleavage to thunder, it is the daylight glow of devilish logic. The trade union are notably uncomfortable with working closely with the motherfucker brigade, the wounded half dozen that spend their time winding down with dolphin fins and other politicians. There were well people in there once: there were many chaps and lasses with smirks on their faces, giant smirks that glimmered in the transcendental waterfalls. The flower show recommends the matter be trusted to the capable hands of the Abu Dhabi Friendship Police Department. The gunmen are everywhere and don't take too kindly to white sauce on the chips. It's an elegant solution to a piddle of a evening. Economies crumble and the microwave beeps for as long as electronically possible. The humans, on the other hand, can go on for fiery months. It's a New York currency market quibble, a difficulty within the quiver of costly arrows, a snarl over a grandiose throne room. Dishes of centipedes, foot medicine and twenty thousand glazed people are what's on offer in the kitchen just down from the throne room, the third door down in this equitable hallway. It's just another case of appropriating tasty fish with industrial scale. It's a diagnosis of dementia in Battersea, a vicarage of the pilgrims from the storyline gardens. Cough and you shall receive the foodstuff of frail teeth. Playing the scene for optimism makes a perfect optical illusion behind woolly gazes and advocated deals. If you really think about it, the slime is pretty much everywhere. The appeal wears off like a knock on a turkey paste tube, like a glass off of Henry's ammo belt. Howl for the pale skin and radio in the hair dye updates before modus operandi gets called into question. Howl.

                The truth is credible yet poor in quality while we pretend to be so cunning and canny and encyclopaedic. The language and culture is established by the dead soldier's shoulder blades, it is defined and redefined by its French saliva. Erasmus pays his respects regularly but only because his wife is very demanding on that particular topic. The truth doesn't appear to follow the turtle's path, it doesn't appeal to those who wear royal blue. The buffoon carries telephonic support on his forefinger contraptions, that's why it tends to keep its hands in its pockets and holsters. Some eight thousand angry Gaols are said by Ed to be Erasmus' lost triumphant piano concerto. THE THOUGHT RESIDES. Can one fart anywhere else but in the soul of the twisted alcoholic? Can you redden the no-point tweezers any further? Can you keep the frogs down? Can you?

                Our field is wrought with supermarket trolleys and clay ambitions. We make goddesses from the cheetah idol, we make it from the chippings of paint. How they cheat us of our individuality? Conformity is still a known thing but all the eyebrows are flashed and arched. You're upwards of nought. The sulking is too infernal to think about at this current juncture, I'm afraid.

                Our hearts part the rift and play foreman to the terminally depressed but there is no simply get-out clause. The toilet break is our only menagerie of solitude and a young man's life hangs in the balance. Can we be so callous as to presume and fob off the credentials? Probably not. We shouldn't have to undergo this trial but we do and there isn't a damn thing the speaker can do about it. He's on suicide duty, wading barefoot through the sandy beaches of delightful pleasantness. Such things are mirages that only the beak nosed can navigate through. Success is a squad of groaning and grumping and grouting while the significance of large hammers goes off into the fading pattern never to be considered ever again. The beasts ride in cosy cloaks, their diabetes parading around them like so many lonely beatniks. The glass inevitably shunts off course and lifts the primer to the opinionated level. Forced entry is a must in this state of limbo, post mortem is the only way out of the grimy material. A kindness indeed can be exploited but that is why humans are the most deprived and ill-fitting companies in the jungle. Permitting the calm is purely handled by the Western-minded tattooed men of contumely. There is nothing on this Earth you can distract from their forsaken presence nor would the childish talons let you go off the rails in such a frivolous way. There's nothing gay about the vintage promise, everything is accessible to pratfalls and loopholes. Guitar strings break hospital beds just as frequently as the weighty pock-marked shrunken aged. Dance is an outrageous accusation when it all comes down to when you choose to be and how often. There are so many permutations like bones in chicken.

                Aunties do everything they can but the gasps are patient and play hide and seek awfully well. The gripe is really underneath the desktop in a hidden bar of electronic mischief. This is the place where hearts get lost and the lovers of tax evasion get their eternal rest. It's terrific to be just about anything but Jurassic or cherry-shaped. Fear of lawsuits clone the hypocrisy that is inherent in the balding and patronising. Glasses try their best but they just can't seem to clean themselves as successfully as their cottony counterparts, the ones that live to fit into tight spaces. Shuttlecocks make for overpowered nights stuck in Darwinian theory, the tact comes with the tacked-on insinuation. Chase pages to a mile away and what do you see?

                The lift is shuddering, crammed full of comedians going places they shouldn't really ingest. The blinking sasquatch waits in loose corners, pretending to be a sandwich seller or something far worthier of petulance. Mother said there was no such thing. She knew the mobsters before they were gangsters, before they were anything but hair product and cheap cognac. She let them choke her in their sleep.

11/05/2013 - SAVIOURS RARELY COME IN BLACK

                Saviours rarely come in black. It's a shambles, a ridicule to the very receptacle of roustabout mathematics. The end of days is come and you expect some different shades to keep things a little different and yet all that is available is the blue and gold deluxe package. The dais is lacking in spirituality or self-respect, it makes woodpeckers of the sordid presentation and reduces our belief systems to petty squabbles. Sameness and idiosyncrasies angle for a better absurd ad, the kind that sorry folk don't get to know about until after their quadruple root canal ergonomic exercise. The tidy is filling up with clear and present documentation flanked by an armada of fan dancers. It's the technological revolt and the triangles plucks its own two-dimensional aspects.

                I saw a sworn in sword wielder at his post and he was singing in a haunting reverent voice pattern. It wasn't beautiful, not the sort of yum you'd come out of your kitchen for but it did enough of a good job to settle the settlement all over again. Thirty thousand doors slaked themselves, rung by wriggling thing. Somerset is a competition all of its own, the drab outfield makes us greet the lost with hearty ambition and sit down recitals. There are crowds developing all over the seeping slammer edges, all over the yardstick degree medication, all over the network jobber. Trickle down potency makes the Welsh tempt the born Dwight and his kingdom of pathetic snapshots of the drag scene. Because the knight is a red lamp on a sunset background, overlapping the sound distribution. Mitosis is water in the party time, a can full of choices, a likeness of such enormity that it translates to hippy instinct. I love how it fades in and the saint makes the mice brave and careful. Operatic CPUs ride rouge turtles with upset turntables pointing in left-handed directions. If default means winning, daftness must be the derelict version of that.

                I won against the springy plant and laughed at the betrothal of finish lines with massive egg crushers. Two more and three more and so much several. The searing ceremony puts the pressure on fun to whisk out the mess from underneath the drunken lion tamer. This is his case file: here. Fucking maniac with magical singing voice, that's the summary for child-based ethics. For the adult mind it is mayhem, fleshed out mayhem. As you can see, the metal is made of 100% pure sky and little else from the hull onward. This id is genuine and unchangeable provided that you don't think about it too hard or far off. Hot dang, yellow pisses me off! Damn their cretin's justice! Damn the arse of the ass and the both of the Motherly Sisters! Thank you!

                When it really comes down to it, what is physics? Is it fizzy? I am inclined to feel happy regardless of the answer and you're levels can't do a thing about it. The herpes roars wrinkles asunder.

10/05/2013 - YOU ARE IRASCIBLE

                You are irascible. The charades you've been keeping up are magnanimous to the occasion and really don't preserve the dolphin reserve in the most ideal way. Their tail fins are muddled and dilapidated and Mormons are the only ones coming to pay their respect. It's a sad day when religion dictates visitation to such a degree that the banjos only play writer themes. The walk down is a long grouchy slipway to the invested objectivity of our human fragility. We give nothing away in our predilection towards castles. They just want to talk but we still give them nothing in case it marks an anniversary or something. The season as we know it is drawing to a close.

                The rosebuds are making snare drums out of their bulbs and the onions are ringing out with pedometer definition. The body movement comes in pairs and never to the knotty village. It might be toxic but the effects haven't quite been narrowed down yet, we might miss something to gripe about. Half a decade should do the trick, I think. What I hope is different game entirely, one that involves gobsmacked masochism. The griffin is calling out to the chimera for a better deal on its car insurance. The outcome can only be bleak with all the acres of tin can rolling around the shop. The stopper makes for vicious rises and pounding tails. Who would the church pick next? Only society could allow such an institution to make pedigrees out of spatial awareness. We're bringing it back into federal custody just to keep the whimpers at bay.

                Spaniards grease the sawn-off shot put with epic borders, the kind of borders you drape your Christmas wishes upon. It's a yawn and a graspable nose that makes this man a mythical being. The big red fire trucks are tricking him during each bowling tournament he insists on. The incessant shanty town of place mats. The dying breed of tyrannical Quakers. We wouldn't want to miss the scribbles as the place turns to killing its own corners with trapped light resources. Betrayal is strewn with sprinkle beams and dusty maize just to make the door quake in an indelicate manner. The slaughter of aprons comes hard for solution drivers and please don't anticipate a myriad of petunia raids in this hearkened district of horseradish. Oh shit, the glass is come! The shiny, shinny moronic glass instruments of yore!

                Racial redistribution is a given in our current canvas bag respite. The trees are whizzing on the canon of gummy sweets so no surprises there then. This house needs this view in order to make itself a tractor for electrical garrisons. Appreciate the Spaniards, Appreciate the Quakers, Appreciate the Mormons but don't let any of them get too close to the tape recorder. The feedback is exhausting and will not bend its own rules to contort the speciality of our entire horizon. It's all coming at us, rushing and gushing and fraudulently plastering the plaid on the deft.

09/05/2013 - THE LIVERS ARE WHAT MAKES IT HARD

            The livers are what makes it hard. Reconvening meetings drag on without scaly interception and there really is naff all there. Not a guarantee or anything circular in its bulges, nothing that reverts to slavery or dictatorship or owl thoughts. On Sunday the rave just isn't a stress or a strain, instead it is a barnacle with intrepid thoughts concerning test subjects. The big boss man wears the suits of green fabric and does the town a solid with his ironic sense of humour. The life of his secret pockets defies the scrawny sadists that put tyres in the courtroom and leave them to go bad and then ignorant. The pitchforks and tapestry are wrapped in an eternal hug, knitted together with the frost of maturity. Nobody can say why the people don't learn, they just don't seem to have the right motivation. If I had a gun to press up against their heads they might wander off and short out the printer with frizzy baby hair. Can the petrified chid come out of thick straws? Can they quash the aspiring government with their sense of duty and hospitality alone? How they drift from topic to topic without the hark of commerce or the furnace of love to keep them tethered to the muddled plane we all appear to share. It's not a place that the serial killer likes to go, it's a place of work for him that leads only to cold purple cubicles. Have you ever worn hand ties? I imagine it's what drives the insane to do reckless strident dodges from the law. Forward rolls push their buttons and unleash their favour on a grand romantic gesture. Wet dreams are grafted from the very stuff of nothingness, that which exists in us all at some point of our weekly misgivings. It saddens the heart but stiffens the limbs to think of the many deceptions we allow to transpire on our hot dogs. Shooting the architect is definitely an option on an occasion such as this, provided you don't miss the nose hair. The boys back down in the lab have a field day with cordite in the bum note, they declare attempted murder whenever the dinosaur isn't looking. Rest assured it is going to happen. Rest wasps, rest your tepid wings and your fiery desires. The taxidermy happens regardless of laughter in lager guides. And, oh, the weddings!

            And so we went paddling for dusk rabbits, out in the middle of the chemical reservoir. We forgot our fishing lines and various parts of ourselves that show restraint in the face of laundry horses. The knees are rewriting the campaign so that it adopts a conservationist angle, an environmentalist got at them in their sleep. The pharaohs are drowning in their own crimson dispositions, their regal storm coming in to lay waste to the peasant class. The roomy garters are letting sunshine into all the gashes and scars, they're preserving them like foetus capes. The home front makes presidents of us all!

08/05/2013 - VERSUS VERSES

            Versus Verses scurry suck and blow. Drawl makes Mangas of us and leaves nothing but meteorite chunks. 'Ow' and 'ouch' do not a cholera epidemic make. Spikes are bummed out by the prospective neutralisation of the grail days and combo monstrosity. Satirical Frederick is prowling all over Erasmus' hairy chest, in search of the red fucking team and their tendency to make minimum wage derelicts bury their dead. I am the reason we lost. I am the poseur.

            Some might have said that it was rigged from the start, that it was a yawn expended in jewels and pillows. This being a completely different gradient, the morose periodic keeps shitting in dolphin-sized chunks. Life-sized isotopes are pumping out stand-up skeletons in contrarian fashions. We rove and rove and say bad things about bruised bulb dialects. Saying something in dominoes has become a travesty of the extra-sensory perceptions. There are Y chromosomes all over the fricative pastrami and the reason lies in the dead centre. It's a dead certainty of personality. My mood juxtaposes the re-established pentacles in a surly massive.

            Lovers are extracted from the whoreson's epistolary format, perfumed by the rudimentary darlings. The puppy appoints the minute as its most favoured guideline, she is on fire like some form of starter that doesn't clap or refund the difference in a creepy machismo click-clack. The camera pans in every which widdershins, making for a dizzy storm for Saul. Draughts come in from every orifice, masking duels and lunging sludge at the road less paved. No-one reserves the right to be upset. Death is a humid victory.

            Weevils are choking poison plants with bivouacs and diverted grandeur while fizzy lips make lizard steps. Broker's Sediment is Paul's Party-based Prophecy. One little scene makes the speech sworn and unending. The background, of course, remains unconcerned and cool. Prosecution is not for the uneasy and gurgling objection. The salad tongs are the last obtrusive answer, the only word pairing that defies the ridges of livery. Wartime stratagem makes the beats jive and merging into one naked ideal known only as Tobias Grange.

            Hell bent on the hockey whistles that fill the stands with standing ovation ovulations, the tryst is curtained off and made inaccessible to the everyday public policeman. He forgot his watch and nipple clamps so he isn't worthy of the notary or any of its dramatic pistol whips. In a backwater parlour such as this, pencil sharpeners are the least of God's worries. He isn't an introduction after all, he's a numbered suicide attempt that Vikings squeal about in their private sleepy mastheads.

            Shut your mouth, you judgemental patriotic far-flung stinky-chinned storyteller! You are spewing forth myths and timeless classics and not thinking about the consequences of your recital and the clockwork it will inevitably melt. Paper flakes are brimming through the pockets and nobody can button down the catch without the portrait of a lair's liar. It's a masochist's wet primrose collection and we insist on stamping all over it.  

07/05/2013 - AND TWICE FOR STELLAR WORK

And twice for stellar work, as the proverbial goat once retorted. There was nothing solemn about his prophecy, there was blood running down his chops at the time and he was in a Haitian sun bed as well. The cold weather made him snarky and chock full of tuberculosis. It’s a lovey’s dream house over that chasm, it’s a thespian’s right old cabal. We asked the drudges to be as grizzly as possible but all they could manage with their meagre resources was the waving of a machine gun’s peril. It taught me how to bludgeon the fuck out of snow ploughs from Sunderland to Hong Kong. The phantasmagorical reputation our movie theatre holds must remain leather bound or live to fight another day with feet firmly in broken glass. There is nothing romantic about the flares he suggests the caricatures he blazes with proposals. Its tinned goods all over again with thrice the dramatic consequence. Plagues, of course, get stomped on as fervently as the welcome mat committee from toboggan country. The marriage proposal ends tonight with a universal quandary and the ceremonial role exchanges of Miss Universe loser line-ups. No families get left for the boogie man, only a mirage of trampoline shoe numbers and saggy wheezing black men. Roosters cannot be the routine root case procedure of skulduggery jamboree and miasma poisoning. Go out back and fire at amnesty for a little while, it’ll do you a world of good. Replay buttons keep the cauterized lovers playful in spite of their devoured horns or municipal interference. The chow down is a crossing on the adamant privacy clause; it makes a callus of our gum disease big easy. The power of modernity brings itself through renders and renders and lives only for the sake of three dimensional printer science. Hurt them and blow out your own beard. The moustache will probably remain through the blizzard conditioning but don’t count on its continued springiness. The hammer is becoming the latest red-faced opaque kissing game again and the gale is bringing sheets and shores of musicality. Sarcasm gets paid directly and doesn’t bathe in the same suite twice. I think I heard it powers down and makes pretend that it’s slow and laborious pretext. It teams like muck storms, issues the agency in a holistic suspicion statute that could and might as well be nature’ finest allegory. It is a routine of malevolence, also said the goat as he blow-dried pandemonium with dead men’s grievances. The blades are a jurisdiction for masturbation to him, make the cream as the teeth are shown or be manipulated accordingly. I yelled and the house heard it all. It was a day to grant silly billy access to poor broods and asymmetrical broads. Squelch went the catch as it melted on the spot, thanks to granulated hypothesis and it’s temporal bubble-squealing laser vodka. It fits me up and down and over and around and mat the closing party be a xenophobic reaction to binocular taverns.