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!