30/06/2013 - MAYBE THE SPOOK

            Maybe the spook could do better at blackjack. What about her? She wants so much out of life, wants many mindful children in heaven. The spook is a fun-loving creature, an apparition of aberration. Needless to say, she's a processes talker and I guess not very ladylike in her use of rhetoric. I took an oath to protect her.

            The oath was scrawled on Ethiopian paper scrolls, underlined by the Laughter of Eve and punctuated by shoddy room service songs. I'm just thinking out loud here, she already forgot about it all in her rowdiness. I told her this happens to be a nicotine nocturne, a time to mark reverence in unsolicited delight. Boy, did she feel great as she graced my bleary larder. She created a Marshall from the material of my gritty pants. Not a pantry though. Ne'er a pantry. Instead she howls like a wolf in a gunfight.

            She's not the sort to hand over fathers, our spook, just you ask her. She says: Better get me off the streets and hang the suckers high. It's not our time to let the action hero loose on this bluffing killer town of killers. I'll see you soon, we'll read in the dull moments. plunder and ponder and plunder again as the sun becomes nothing more than a bloated orb of concentrated double time splicing. It couldn't be a case of being set in my ways, I am quite friendly with most creases I meet out in the world today. Let's see if the civil tombstone fits accordingly but please hear the mayor out first, before he goes off busy again. It's time to suffer preciously the hour and moment to be authentic and ahead of myself. My Gorgonzola God-fearing self. I'm growing sick of you. I've grown sick of your offspring. Get thee gone.

            She always passes around a carrier gun, declaring to the gulping and guzzling guys that I'm in fact her brother and a chief pognophobic. This is the first time I've actually felt tiny in a camel's year. It's time to be a can-can girl I think, suffering from toe-curling, thinly-curved tuberculosis. What do you think of that then? What do you bric-a-brac clowns think of that? Would I be a good singer or should I stick to a life hiding behind sheets and milk jugs? Oops. Whatever. That's just the just for you.

            GET YOUR MANSLAUGHTERING MITTS OFF MY REBUFF, YOU DARN MUSTY PLATITUDE! GET ME A SIGN TO CHEAT WITH! AND SOME PERSPECTIVE TOO! JUST A SPRIG MIND! HELL! I'LL FIGHT YOU RIGHT NOW! IT'S A-COMIN'! YUP. YUP. YUP. YUP. YIP.

            And she said: climb out of my baby talk, redefine nature by the good women they raft and shaft out through the best and brightest parts. I fellate out of severe porridge, out of bad day logistics. Give it a rest why don't you, I might be persuaded to raid your dresser later tonight. It'll be the best clean out of the century and I guarantee my promises.

29/06/2013 - SAUL SAW

            Saul saw and saw furthermore. He didn't mind the wind, he didn't come of his own accord. They damned him in the summertime, threw him out of his cherry fields in order to make a good living elsewhere. These Fine Fathers of Reward came off as brash and abrasive in their demanding he got up off the floor. They knew the law after all, they paid him very well for his services to solitary soldiers when they crashed from the turnpike in the sky. Their rules were strict though, enforced by motivations too wild and obtrusive to describe on mere paper. Saul ate papyrus as part of his day to day diet.

            So he ventured out into the gardens and whacked off in the sugar cane patch as a final act of despair. His mind was slipping into two wobbly jelly shards, squabbling among the lips of far fatter men. He was becoming one with a god, well on the way, but which one? Someone else who told the tale suggested it was one with a preference for lightning bolts and snickering holy books. Speculation is a wonderful thing and not worth being worthy of. These are his tall tales, these are her whoppers. Nevertheless things would go on to improve for old Saul, an architect came to his side of the road and patted him on the back until all the foul gas was out of him. The last of his pressure fizzled out at the gentle sound of the word 'bollocks'. In that moment Saul knew he would be number one again, if not on a pedestal with most bearded geniuses.

            He thanked the architect and rose to his feet, withdrawing a yo-yo from the obligatory handshake. He stalled it into a sleeper and then threw it up in the air where it shattered into a thousand creamy crystals that whistled back down to earth. Saul looked down and thought, My, how the grass looks from here is not for the faint of heart. He was, of course, exaggerating and doing a damn fine job. It was a pity that nobody could pull out a chair for his sardonic wit, it was a shame that nobody suckered him into babysitting a serial killer. He counted himself lucky for just being a simple hick without a care for his chin to suddenly and unfaithfully balance on. It was a mismatch made in the very name of opportunity.

            Saul set out on a journey to marry Peggy Sue but was met with fraught frigid battleships and workaday leprechauns with terrific temper tantrums. He shot them all with his trusty wavelength gun and did a runner straight to Splitsville via Lam Avenue. Who would have thought as he ran, that he could raise his knees so far up? Who could have predicted that both his wife and his fiancé were the same shade of black? Who put him up to a career in cutting cloth? Saul cannot walk very far in stampede season.

28/06/2013 - GIVE OUT

Give out, giving out, given out, got.  

             REVOLTREVOLTREVOLTREVOLTREVOLTREVOLTREVOLTREVOLTMARTHA! This is a safe justice, a tweaking of the starry-eyed opinion editorials that stand to gain from a circular argument. You should surround them with sandbags and grow your own tapestry without the homoerotic tension. Who needs all that drama when we can all become a choir? Choirs learn to adapt, adapt, ADAPT more than adequately. It's like sheep with them, worth tending and makes for good pillow cases. This one here is number nineteen, that means it's on its merry old way to becoming a button factory. We'll split and divide its organs among the mug rats and their stormy palates. Let is not an option, it is a quizzical understatement in a game of backward-forward chess. It wraps the house in its own solicitor's office, twists its nipples into an Encore of Ramsey. Oh Captain, Cap and Gown and British Columbia! We clung and clang to the right place and the slack-jawed idiot moors. Additional scan settings tell us that the indication it usually spews out is a little less than satisfying. We told it as much with back-handed slaps and prayer mat beat downs. We don't crush to death or suffocate though, that shit's for wierdos.

            HALF-REMEMBER half-heartedly but don't batten down the CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH BATCHES. Turn away from life in a rock band: become a loved hourglass, an ornament to oriental kind folk. They'll fall into your porcelain heart and thrum out a jazzy tune on their electric pizzicato strings. That's the only way to force feed onyx into symbolic humdrum chums. We'll rectify the closed eyes with a balmy, barmy WINDYASSFUGGITABOUTITFALLDOWNYATIT situation modifier: trust us, it's a best way of introductory quantum reliance. Our electric guitars have long since served their respectable respective purpose. More than words can show how to plug in the adaptor. More than words can say smiley face emoticon. More.

            The train has a face and COMES IN THROUGH THE DREAMS LIKE A BRUCETIDDLERMAGGOTFUCKER and ably worms its way into the brain compartment specifically manufactured to recognise different types of daffodil pad. This bit is a quality bit, a bitmap that depends on nights in baseball camps and destructive sullen solos. Swimming deserves quiet storks to tread past its dashboard photos and reverse over them for good measure. She forgot her frilly under things at the moon's baggage station and that's why the crossing guard is packing heat in such a definitive depiction of himself. It's not like years ago when he was a sleigh driver who saw everyone naked at least twice in their lifetime. Perversion of Saturnalia prods the orbit into Ferris Wheel perpendicular motion, just like you said. Your snap judgement laughs with bated breath and serves its trainer well and in willies.  It's not for commercial and the train would not RECOMMEND or tingle or STRAPONBUCKLEINKNUCKLEDOWNDOITBASTIONSTYLEYEAHYEAHYAHHUZZAHSATIN. But then what could it be in substitution? Letters send themselves telepathetically like a poet sends out portly misgivings into the muse's boggled niggle box.

27/06/2013 - LEAVE IT TO THE PODIATRISTS

            Leave it to the podiatrists to make a masterpiece out of numbers and introspective chaos. They make coveted whelps by the dozen just for the greeting cards list. This inspired me to hire a rooftop patrol for recovering pirates, they observe ambulances as if emergencies were birds to be watched. There are usually cops on duty stuff their faces with small potatoes so at least there's some elementary safety preserved. This pirate, the one to the far left, is heading out on a school run; she doesn't have a child, she just caters for playgrounds. We could call it a geographic feat of super strength but assassins come down to scare away any remaining fatherhood from the miniature masses. It's time to knock it off, knock it down, shoot it up and shoot it offside. British taste.

            Don't share this scientist's drive-thru idea with the goons at the door, they'll just sound the alarm and kneel down to reach for terrorised tools. I'm not exactly certain how bedding the logic makes a tiny profit in spite of equal animatronics, all it does is hit the street. Pleasing the boasters corrects the grammar and makes short work of syntax. You don't end with an implication, you end with a hearty supposition. Let's accept it while we're still hopped up on teleportation river dances. That way its only kind of lame.

            The inherent bloopers, oh the inherent bloopers. They sprout antlers all over my cherished foreheads, my children of the space bar. They obliterate any chance of me ever making a good scheme that's actually worth a damn, a dam and a van dyke. Molluscs come and take them all away eventually but I just don't have the time to wait around and play with my dulling apparel. There's much to do that involves Irish Whiskey and displacement theories that actually reapply themselves on a shifty, slinky basis. If you have an opening go for it, if you don't go to Dewsbury. This is the holy place of elastic dates, a melting pot of reading and friends and wills to transpire and conspire. They made stadiums out of such material when it was mixed in with chicken soup and tarmac. It's fragrant to say the least, pungent provided your nostrils are not working idly. The courses are as below, a delectable garrison of their very own tape recorder instruments. Agree or fly.

            Glory be to you my most inedible director, glory be to your offspring and pliable ideology. The cake decorations are coming to town to show us how best to repurpose scripted screen material, how to be most adequate with the storage facility. The codes are coming forth to split the diodes into tachyon predications. At the point our world will swell with beards and even the pocket dimensions will chafe with red raw minutes of scratch. How hell turns us over, how babes swat at diaper commercials in spite of their lawyer's testimonies. If you please, if you please go out into the damp.

26/06/2013 - VAPID MARY

Vapid Maddy and her ghastly ghostly foreclosure: she let me down, she let me down. Story has it; she made men despair frequently and without rebuttal. It was her party trick with the ironing bowl that did wonders. Mister Great Big Nobody from the No-Man’s Land, he built a farm and named it after her. After Vapid Mary and her quadruped sheep fetish.

Then I met Samantha, the ranting wriggly collector of scimitars. She jousted on weekends which kept me safely under wraps, me being the erstwhile cabin boy. It laid out the newspaper pipe and swam through the current, against the current to find the truly gobsmacked property agent with his deadly keys. But we should be so lucky. We ended up with the invisible man on Hepatitis H. My knee felt like it had been shot out of a cannon and reattached on entry. I kept the brook flowing nicely though, I kept the train from slicing through its delightful undertones. Judging from the last droplet it had something of the quaver to it. Piquant in a toggle coat, just like the screenwriter and his wife the director of photography. She’s a slut and he’s a hindrance. The very prospect of them coming round to visit keeps me on my toes like a day in a Vietnamese prison. The worst ones are outside in the cool November air. That’s the way they got to me, that is the way they blooded me. How portentously I thought that night.

Erasmus knows of Vapid Maddy but the two have never shared a shower together. Keep him in the public conscious, escaped and proudly dictated: that’s what I always say. I said yes to the fire of his spunk and no to the chill of her shaving cream. Hells and bones to Vapid Maddy, that flapping varmint. All the live long day. Every chance I get to fly and make pretend I’m a super powered runaway.

Pink shirts are a prison, her pink shirts being the hardest to cope with. On your feet, I told her but she went off the shallow end and spat in my guard’s sharp featured face. She didn’t even promote the clock, she ate it down to the downsized applications but she never once promoted it like the damned thing deserved. I called the machine shop and brought her to the yard for her sins to be laughed away, she commanded that I stop wearing the warden as a poncho and leave her to her spaghetti breakfasts. I felt such pressure that I had to comply. Rolled up carpets make me kneel all over the place, shades or no shades. At least the handlebars are a consistent part of the diet, at least the rubber told me not to worry. It’s almost as if it knew me well enough to orchestrate me into its elaborate robbery plans. The Spaniard minions welcomed me like a brother but all our eyes remained stuck to the undercarriage of Vapid Maddy. And her kids.

25/06/2013 - BEANS TO BREACH THE TIDE

                Beans to breach the tide to reach the tithe to bone the hell out of those eyes in the dark. They're balls of blinks, shaded glare, Machiavellian white. The beans then broke a deal with fishes to roast the dead man out of his village of tampered cogs. It's a method of coaxing, a slapdash of hoaxing, a tickle for fickle galaxy trees. Chatter in caverns, chatter in caves, chatter in cavernous spots that echo the graves. Mother to be an oven again, a microwave oven turned up to ten. This is a place. Do you see? May I see?

They say don't be silly, don't be frilly with the rhyming scope, shape the language like it's so much putty in a heron's talon. I say you curmudgeons should all live in dungeons and get gang banged in Russian for luncheon and tea. If it's high, go fuck yourselves lightly into that sweaty night. Ravenous taverns, duplicitous suplex, wind down for the weekend and rear end a tail gate. Money is good or fantasy would be south of the flood to drag me through muck. Let's clatter. Let's shamble. Let's scatter and preamble. The whisk rules and rules out possibility for good little girls. They'll bend on naked knees, all peachy keen, all out to seas to be a saltine. The crumble is love, the crumbling stove, the crumbled dense goat, the crumble after nowt. It knows like fashion, a mindless fruition, a tampering crashing, a wrinkled fez stalker.

You go out to become one with the beans, one with the tweens, one with the twee hypotheses, or just these please. You wear the stove pipe, a dream in a dank knife, a coloured bulldog with multiple wives. Bigamy is a bigotry, a bigger tree than me and my rank. These vibrations, these penetrations, these vibrations, these penetrations, these vibrato penitentiaries stocked with dusty maps and big fat fucker rings. Let's go out to wrangle about sheep midriffs and all the castrato whiffs that whip and wind and don't tell the time for the duration of a dire song. The roaring and soaring and motherfucking oaring that leaves looks that kill by the wayside in all credit play slides. They loved me on the big tour and you'll love my Torah description, I tore a scripture out with my left knuckle and it became. I tried to stop, I stopped to try, I died to shop, I shopped to die. It's all the same when encrusted.

Beans entrusted me with August because I make a foggy Faust, a devil-led man with a lust as long as his expenditure. Tis pity she's out of the door, this woman form, this comely porn that climbs out of my stubbed toe. It's a humble bramble, a slaked stake-out, a direct line to mine  and my own. The children are going, their mothers are going, their fathers are slapping me down to the town to the crown of that town. These children say nothing.

24/06/2013 - IT ALL SUDDENLY BECAME APPARENT

It all suddenly became apparent; parenthood in disguise would be the most surprising outing yet. It would be outlandish and crammed full of unlit matches with a few spent matches keeping the matter afloat. It would be like a splash page of entropy, a warm crumpet going off into the stratosphere in order to merge with the small of the universe’s back. This process would be wibbly but I would call it Martyrdom and have done with it. There is theology to every winch wench, a spasmodic interval to every sunny day. Another name is necessary to keep this busy ball of things alive and abuzz and perhaps a little altruistic. There are bodies and then there is rye and ne’er could they hold hands in the crystal ball’s mighty blinking. The eye would sooner go out than spend a fortune on a spent match bedtime freighter. These pipelines, the ones that are currently under your feet, will be rigged to explode by the time this joke ends. If you value your continued preservation, why not try the old soft shoe?

Of course this is coarse. It’d be happenstance any other way and we can’t be having any happenstance dangling over the favoured furniture, can we? Canst thou imagine the caballo grande and its tub of malignant Vaseline? The product placement fees would be staggering not to mention the people who stand in long queues for this sort of shit would be turning cartwheels just to get a chance to spite us in an especially vindictive fashion. We could have a file come down to share in our text evasion, wooden and spiffy and well suctioned. The ball joints would make for some difficult work but the plastic bags would remain just as darling as their gentile companions, the rucksacks. Carrying on the requiem would just mean a looser adaptation to solid food. The writ actor makes his invasion sweet and underplayed. Pigtails are not an option in his line of gigs.

This is the bird. The bird is a plateau for a new state of thinking, a brand new condition of avoiding the correct outlook. Keep typing and typing and tinkering into its beak and all it will say is that the alphabet is a restructured mass of autocracy. It usually says this in tweets and gurgles but you might just get lucky or unlucky and hear the full description as it rumbles and shudders through plastic alloys.

There is in fact a place for us, up Erasmus’ ear canal of all places. It’s nice and snug and provides for a little village that prides itself on its dedication to military stratagems and wolfish knife combat. It’s creepy but you’ll get to know the locals and realise that the locks are actually pretty damn sturdy and nobody can part the shelves anyway. Stay out of the reach of their dockside monsters, these things have claws and tales as tall as those claws. They say LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALMARTHAKINGSTON and SANTATRAPPEDTHEHIDDENROBOTSWITHHISPATRIARCHALDESIGNANDFANCYFOOTWEAR but pay them no heed.

23/06/2013 - LOQUACIOUS AND FULL OF HOLES

Loquacious and full of holes, we’ve seen so much traffic pass through the baggage holders. They fenced my petty squids with romantic contrivances. I’ve been bruised in the massive cleaning operations. To say that I’ve had enough is to substitute the truth with even more truth spiked in the middle with dead irony. Bricks flying through catatonic patients won’t stop what’s currently ensuing, not even if those patients carried their parent’s fences between their teeth. This collection of fools are gaining too much recognition from the Council of WHATEVERIMMAJEMIMAWIDDLESTICK. At least we know why we’re here and how to contain the problem with Hosannas and various varicose vein howling. It’s relaying really dangerous waves of insubordination in our dashing little town. It’s making the peoples squint at lampposts.

We can call the priests to provide better solutions but what then to do about their Nazareth parlour tricks? They lead with drooling slogans and leave with half-witted stoppers wedged between their motherly dandelions. Our elimination is at hand at the hand stand because of one man and his selection of voracious women: Simpering Neil and the Booby Communications Unit. The stakes they intend to gamble will crush our bedding completely, not even our quilts will be mush it’ll be so dire. The Germane techno beat will wince up the charlatans and pulsate through their inner extremities just in case they make any sudden courteous movements. They broke my member with their sleepless nights and lost ground that is a task that won’t soon be forgiven. Now I go about my day without a suitable weather gauge. Someday I’ll assuage the chains of my undulating wrath with bacon grease and pitter patter paraphernalia. Goodness, the troubles of confused gods and terminally ill titans! They each have distant eyes that winkle in vain if you really must go without ceremony. I suppose I’ll just have to miss you.

Seriously we do not know a touchy argument from a groundbreaking archery challenge. The spinster catches reruns with us every Thrush day and speaks only in the advert breaks like that would somehow dispel the rumour she’s a rude and ugly mincemeat champ. One ancient rite later, we’ll be rid of her entirely like so much love for pet physicality. We loved the girl like she was a puppy; we kept her away from the microwave and made desserts from her nasal hair. Go in peace, we said to her, go fuck a French magnate with his pointy beeping beep beep. Fucking tease. We can rectify her learned nature with a Spanish Omelette or maybe that would be to ideal? The rock stars would be on our case then but, as the scenario pointed out earlier, they’ll be on our case anytime and all the time. Every time might be a tad of a push though: the policy pylon leans and blinks but never leans or blinks. It’s a tampering tutu that won’t stop upgrading through the March Madness. Wheelbarrows are leaking their seminal fluid all over the Tramadol pavement.

22/06/2013 - EXPLAIN TO ME

Explain to me why the redeemed woman weeps as she reaps the dirty race car. It isn’t a normal way to spread cheer and divest opportunity but the exhaustion has all but shed its beard, I reckon. Allow me to be the one who strikes his light against the cold Irish underside of a quarterback, slipping forty hundred bucks into his nativity pouch. The Punjab equivalent would be catastrophic to say things in a sorry tone of voice. It’s time to tamper with the habitat and see what sheds its whites in the resounding echo.  This banner system is rife with possibility, practically wriggling with funeral cakes. The dalliances we Jewish heroes pretend to keep the ladies in pink dresses content is what’s really burning us, grinding us up, turning us into pure, unadulterated meaning. Show us the ropes and we’ll board obedience like a drunken fist listener.

They told me he became a man with a malleable face in order to preserve the deerstalking tradition set in stone by the prosaic mutterers. These fucking buttmunchers are too busy pleasing their elders to consider we still possess the pool cues our father’s pressed us with. Trust is a hard and blatant commodity when paternal love took its eyes off of the neon. They made light of Jesus Christ, sapped him of his winking xenophobia, marked him for greatness despite his squiggly manhood. Wear a scarf today, deity! It’s freezing the branches out there! What do you hope to do to reinforce our mastery? He chose to makes u bleat, of course. He made us look like furry blurry princes, set in our methodical humping lengths. It was as he intended so, hey, let’s go up to the mountains to see the pussy go dead and deadly. Trees teach obnoxious golf.

Let’s hunt the bunch and grate their fucking nuts, charm their dipstick hearsay into wanton axels. Let’s kick the starburst into submission through the power of Ruskie singing. Let’s smoulder the hats with great directors standing in for kindling. They told me I was funny and just had to die. Who would know me so well? How can I sob without fear of walking away? You know what, go to Helsinki. Never.

This crust has known me for a long time, it has often spirited me away, sponsoring the distance like a pusillanimous truepenny. The days of my treading are numbered and bookmarked for the centuries and diamondback decades to come. The caption will read ‘Good to within a inch of poetry’ and I’ll know just how to react to that sentiment. I shall stand up and applaud my weary bone structure, my glazier and the rest of his hulking family. I will then proceed to bowl myself into the universe, shunt and curl into a sweet velocity that tears the profession of cynicism into remnants of its cobbled together self. Who knows if I am a real person, who cares if I’m a likeness? I’ll blaspheme my way north.

21/06/13 - THUS SPAKE THE WILD CHILD

            Thus spake the wild child that lives in my sock drawer. His doctrine is sound and scummy to within a remainder of illustrated logic. The endemic that pokes out of his pocket is nothing to worry about, it's a gay outing for the conceived and flighty with no better hobbies to bother about. The timid ones are kneeling and preening and sending answers to avoid the problem. It's all about stubbly violence, gritted teeth and Bolivian knees. Their mothers got vertigo and bastardised their offspring with the dexterity of a mayfly. The angles came down around them all, the occupants of this tired scenario, and localised the potent threat to a decimal points. There is a gauntlet that can be found in the difference but who really cares to duck down to reach for it. It's covered in eggs, all slimy and wretched.          Loose and all out for control, the wild child smote Erasmus on the back of the throat just to see what the aftershock looks like. It was scarcely disastrous but at least the remote didn't slam through the table this time. Americanised vibrations scupper these harpies, broil them out of the water, out of the rock pool. We might have crabs but we definitely have crabbiness. Lemonade is all we energise because that is all we ever need to talk about. Our serious lips bump gristles and hope we're not suggesting a new wave orchestra movement, the sort that involves nemeses with neat beards and Mardi Gras appendectomies. The wild child gnashed many teeth but not his own, mostly because it wasn't his due. Thank heavens for appointments with guilt and not the guilty. It's hard to turn somebody down if they paved the way with street magic and little else. It's a game of politicking that rarely pans out well for the dissident distributor. Such long and careless sax solos.

            They signed the death certificate instead and made a song and dance of the way the pen lid was balanced. Little did they know that exactly how it was effected would change the very nature of trouser presses and not much besides. Instead of worrying about pen lids, they should have been considering tyrannical cherubs that seem to rain down whenever you are near me. Perhaps they should stop and white out the least observant field of thinking ahead of the fence. It makes a massive prance of my most hated enemy, my personal antithesis to Erasmus and Neil combined. Californication is what they call the process. It slices off limbs before eradicating the remaining sockets. It's right yucky, right spastic. Not that I condone such a contrivance, the lettering is by far the most spoiled selection it has ever been my displeasure to tap over. I'd much rather that you call me a cab whilst I fondle over the yo-yo ukulele, it would be a credit to the benefit of your best bedraggled behind. It wouldn't do a damn thing to that chick in her hat over there.

20/06/2013 - STOVEPIPES

                Stovepipes are the baby daddy's of modern armaments. Sliding at 75 mph they empty their battlements of all stalagmites and pepper the remaining ice water in case of an insurgency. Lift it up, there's an award underneath it all, the glowing globe of a hermaphroditic skittle. It stabilises the institutionalised male as he rocks back and forth underneath the quasi-systematic monster party. He used to own microwave ovens but then the tails met his flank and shattered their way into his spinal column. It took eleven burly blokes to revoke his membership to the roof tile medical group before any suckers noticed. Instead he went to Zurich to make his way as a profiteer, a Shandy-glugging partisan with a buttload of elks in his lower portions.

                One day this chap became borderline schizophrenic as he built a line around Heathrow Airport. It had all the trademark piercings, all the tipsy rose bushes. He tilted as he unleashed a sword from his boot and ducked under the alarm honks as if they would conceal his intentions. The hostesses wrestled him to the ground with duct tape and ironic comments about his dress sense. He felt thorough aroused and demanded a midshipman be delivered to his quarters at once. He had no quarters to give or take. They walloped him from the back of his hand to the concertina toes that wavered outside his boot. He fired and flustered and forgot drug addiction was a sin in the profiteering business. The only high was a cloud you could occasionally visit just off of the next important junction wherever you were. It's gone now, of course. They all weep for it.

                The narrator left him for the roadside kerbside child protection acts to kiss the poor self-destructed whelp into submission. The strident narrator does this a lot, he just abandons a weak plotline as soon as the heat slithers up his back hairs. That's technically the fault of senior management but at least they have the audacity to string him up from the wall bars and fill his mouth with his pay, crumpled blob by crumpled blob. Bear in mind he was a wet day when he met the man with the painful tale and he'd forgotten his helmet yet again. Body doubles were proffered but he carried on regardless, scrambling through the overgrowth of shopping channels to get to a sappy spud sucker. He takes targets like his stride, sexually and in all the others.

                The narrator married a woman called Gaea despite the fact she was a working woman, a queen tycoon with green nails and black belts. She taught him the way of action stations, taught him how to be a memory satchel, taught him the very imperative nature of halting white water traffic. He lovingly calls it a wimpy giant, tainted by the sun's crafty radiation. Planes come around from all over the place to fire at his backside and thrust hot pokers into the path he is about to tread. Poor Erasmus. Again.

19/06/2013 - LEFT AND CLEFT AND SMARTY PANTS

Left and cleft and smarty pants musicians go off in tumbling trousers to turn beds. The lolloping tongue gallops through the calendar of folders of masterworks of eh. It all happened on an afternoon in the sea shells of Gomorrah, like bridges in hedgehog territory. The inherent jabber wilts before the gilded rosary, before the curling toenails, before the might of an empire. We should get ahead while it's still drowning in a pool of cost and copious coupons. Right and sight and redirection of amoral action. It's all a game of one hand over the other, televisions being lost in the process on board a necktie, smuggled and such.

                I go wheeling through the hempen ancestry, across the stitch of morose dwellings, over the municipal fisticuffs. It was a remarkable day of making, a handful of compressed hours forming a gluttonous masochistic hook. That took a kilometre to find, no lie. Graphology was a big help but I did it all on my lonesome, clinging only to the traffic lights when appropriate. Hugging, of course, was out of the question. My league was unleashed upon a diamond plantation that erupted with holy matrimony but was bogged down by paper mill responsibilities. Everybody did what they thought was correctable and upright, however to say we didn't crash and burn would be a polite exaggeration.

                Including Perry. Including Perry. Including Perry. Including Perry. Including Perry. Including Perry. Including Perry and spatulas. Including Perry and his spatulas. Including Perry and his spatulas of terrorist wonder. Including Perry and his spatulas of terrorist wonderment. Including Perry going fast downhill. Including Perry going fast downhill, uphill and somehow off centre. Inclusion is a wonderful thingamajig.

                To be unfamiliar with the Beatles is a product placement advertisement in the offing. Duck low or be encased in the gelatinous flint of popular idealism. There is a sugary centre there but not for the no-brainer's among us. If you have enough graphite then you might be granted passage but only if it is covered by quality insurance. The robin will know so don't try any funny business, all it takes is a grain of a pinch of a sniggering measurement to melt down your assets. Perry is already storing the blossom as we speak, or as I speak if we're going to be completely candid. Nevertheless let's have a shifty at this here obelisk. Doesn't it look grimy?

                The tramps are out in full force this night. They're wielding windscreen wipers like nunnery payments and will not leave this land without a snuggle bunny to hook up to. The humours are necessary so don't skimp out on them. I can't tell you how many times I've poisoned one of them only to be struck down by duckling feathers. When it doesn't tickle it's unpleasant, causes ruptures and everything. Ambiguity leaves no mercy to wriggle and dart about in the soil, leaves no hairy climes to travel to with expansive suitcases. Until we meet a friend. Until then.

18/06/2103 - A FRENETIC STAIRCASE

            A frenetic staircase: don't look at it! It's ablution! So sexed up! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hah! Let's establish the bastard just like the government sucks in a mindless vortex sort of way. Relentless Friday Magic is the new idiomatic moniker for hire, cast atop a swirly background. It was fairly academic, a conclusion reached by frightened consequences. The abduction is not illegal and weir comes out from beneath the gun of Jasmine. She  fell out of Erasmus' ass and arse like a silken stool. How awesome is it to be burned by superpowers? It makes brains out of atomic cats and flashing grizzly bears. Let's dig into the worst aspect of linkage and doom the pistol chair. Why not Photoshop the dwindling seals with flaming swings? The chic is coming in the storm of purple lady and her wandering pulpit, crammed full of cutesy diaphragms. Just throw the Asian spandex out of the window and spin away from the trade-off before the five o'clock shadow says pish tosh. I'm already bordered after thirty seven seconds and the meaningful youth is currently rising out through my thematic pores. Ejection of Points is the official title for talking heads. Oh yay. Heehaw.

            Shiver my futuristic typeset, revive the aged drinking game before contraband lets go of its own fine upstanding witnesses. This, I suppose, is Boron: an element of brown-eyed rabblerousing and the master producer of devilment. It makes for a good enough suitor to bodily stones, a poster boy for slaughter. That sort of event is good for expressionism, a telltale sign of rampant integrity and the gnarly emblems we've gotten used to thanks to aphorism and deadened jazz funk. It's not good for studies to get ahead of their shutter physics. Provocation's like havoc, in the spirit of the Essex theme and curious at that. I do feel taller than the teller by due course but the chants are beating me down into a plate of latter day parcels. So it has to be a good excuse or it's war by euphonic cleaning. SOMUCHRAYWAYTHINKINGANDPALMINGANDPLUMSURGING. SOMEHOWWEGOTAWAYFROMTHESURREYSIDESHRINKER. STAYOFLEAVEOREAVESOFFLAGELLANTFORTITUDES.

            God of Medieval brides, raise up the guide and its myriad of pan clasping. It's what I do when I freeze to death, I'm a trained professional who keeps his arms strapped across the bell. My architecture travels in wisps of healthy doormen. Go outside to be outlined and fervour will reward your details in ghastly peacock madness. Myself in a meat tenderiser, all out of forest fires. The starry deployment is just for the boys in uniform, weaponised woodland especially for the pissed-off service. It's the exact sort of basis for a webbing to rise from, suckled by a quietly confident headmaster. Right then, the sultry shoelace will do its best to overcome this particular travesty. In short, Erasmus will make it go away like a spattering candle on an incoming frigate. Consider the financial terms of tomatoes, consider how they could be applied to happiness again and again. STOPPERS.

17/06/2013 - THROW IN STUFF

            Throw in stuff that doesn't happen. That's not the only thing, get this to a map where your father is. She crumbles in the mood of a thousand burning friend zones, she warms her bra on the flicker of rock-dodging. He listens while his face melts, listens to his sister creep up behind her with a refuse collector van. He lolls out on the floor when the map is discovered and the sister screams with killer looks and birdsong. There are so many screwed on mindsets to be had in this situation is staggering. Here is my contrived moment, it felt unbelievably forced to bulge in sobriety. Alas what does it build up to? A bounty hunter with a burrow where her arse should be. It is undeniable proof that God is getting soft and muscle bound. It cancels out the rapture with explanations tucked away and thumbed for later. Amazons and Valkyries are in fact normal size but more bloodthirsty than you could ever successfully counter. Dude, it's uncomfortable and inconsistent.

            The climax makes for a good fight, the hole in the middle loses all interest and starts swallowing to pass the time animatedly. They told her that it was very nicely done on a dinosaur, that the perfume was in fact saved to be savoured by the salvo sovereign. You've got them going to the rocks to drink sake and raise the letter yes. How much does the ethic cost? More than a rebellion, rest assured. It makes you blissfully moral, an upstanding citizen with wobbly teamwork that makes loss like risk-taking. It does pay off, the map foretells. These tracks cause minor offences but we like the little thing in the middle there. How many episodes before the scamper juices? How just? That is very well done and naturally gonna happen. So don't be miffed about it or the gremlins will come and suck out your lymphomas and leave miniscule partiality behind. The skull is a mysterious and murky place unless you're playing tiddly-winks. God rest your soul if you've only just managed to comprehend that reference. Sorted, as they say.

            I am apprehensive in my nudity, my slippery converge will cause the looks to fade into street culture and that's all there'll ever be of the British salute I once loved. It takes a good year to sulk and shut the refrigerator door. There all sorts of value systems that just won't stay inside, not for all the wrinkled chips in the roundabout. The maid freeze-dries her contribution like any old dookie, docile and smashingly. These lodgers she tends are pouring rice everywhere because nobody's got round to footing them the bill yet. What a strop. It's for the garrotte we show our displeasure and we show it like a runt in a horrid body. Let's all move on before the chips fry and gargle their anthem to a percentage of the air raid. Sarcasm hones in when you're not looking just to be damned sure.

16/06/2013 - HOISIN TAUGHT ME EVERYTHING

Hoisin taught me everything I know about numerical typography. All is right in the world, all is rite as scripted. I wanted to read with gladdened smallpox but the twats were everywhere, at every foreseeable juncture. I launched myself into a snowplough truck and smoothed out the hybrid elliptic that seemingly surrounds my skull.  They said to try Siberian gaming, to become one with the country and king. I tried Siberian gaming, it left me covered in medicinal compound and tainted by dramatic tension. I have an ironing contract that's all fleshed out temporarily and that is admittedly arduous. I could grace the pages of Nark Monthly in the meantime but fridge magnet supplies are sinking beneath the level of saturation. I have accounts to settle and a settee to wreck with indecent acts of frustrated slamming. The only way out is to ask what's up and offer you help in the breadth of a baby's hand. I won't do that for obvious reasons, a la raisins.

                We call it trickery, the condition you manage to leave the dustbin in. You somehow revert it back into its primal state, make it think it's become an Indian garden trowel. It may been at some point but January in the aviary does tend to be forgotten as swiftly as it picks up its clothes. Watch the body scream in eternal preternatural spelunking hobbies. It's a sacred horror, a malevolent terror as good as the gold on my sweat. My long haul drags against the loose purpose screen wipes, wriggles up to be childish within the proper organised parameters. That's the way my uncle talked to women, with utmost missives of big boss. I still remain baffled but the scrawl remains forbidden nonetheless. Ask any half-decent comedienne, that particular Danish pastry won't be making any curtain calls anytime soon. Hardwood is the only questionable answer in this maudlin affair. Goodness.

                They told me that it was time to take a barf and that meant chugging a connection to my inner introspection whilst simultaneously whistling a campfire song to appease the grapple-limbed Bunsen people. I told them to go monetise lemon into chump change and spit it into the rectal cavity of James Sammerson while he tweaked  his other ungodly passages. The yellow of the sky forewarned me that bad timing was coming, that it was so swollen that it had become a self-perpetuating sense that would ultimately go on to bugger the softer side of reality. I said do it anyway, regardless of what's on the minds of these peasant lookers. Yes, I betrayed my hemisphere and maybe the very civilisation that taught me how to ride the educational system with meritocracy as my only oar but that sort of thing won't ever stop me. I'm cold and happy about being cold and ambivalent about being happy about being cold. It's a textbook procedure, a dialectic coach going underground in case of tangential boating accidents. I still have myself ready with a few other personal pronouns handy in a pouch.

15/06/2013 - AND ARE YOU MADDENING IN CIRCLES?

                And are you maddening in circles? Actual circles that wind round the front and pang at the back? Are you a rogue ripe for the firing squad? Are you free and easy in the taciturn spherical alliance? Could it be? Could it be? Could it be that my mother is your chiropractor? I have some thumbs of disrepute to fire underneath the beachside trollop. The results will be bloody and broody and perhaps a tad Amish around the elbows. Could they tell us about the summer? Some more about the summer? Could they clatter spoons against hefty plates then leave the rest of the palate to our duty list? I might just cross my salad dressing with the sundered cumulus. Take a chance, as they always seem to say on my birthday. I'm going upstairs in a minute.

            They felt my son like a sword in a short man's chest. It was sorrowful on the countertop all the livelong day and no amount of chicken stock could roast the condition to a twinkle. This is the sport of walking in virulent masses. The only way is to contort and convert assiduous monstrosities to become their very own defeatist haymakers. Saxophones are dipped in permanent solutions and then caked in jazzy suits of leather just to make room for the madams with glasses. It's much easier to calculate crossing when you're already on the side of the crying and cared for. We call them the uninitiated, they constantly deserve a spank across their nose. Light little snares cram the lane from the gutters down to the embolism of emblematic tampering. It's a courteous excuse to use and not one for the proboscis to handle on its own. Could we start again with the limey please? He sees to know all the answers and wouldn't be completely averse to footbath technology in primetime television.

            What's that in your hand? Is it a light snack? Is it a turbulent quip to shamble through my essential oils? Is it a pattern? Is it a pattern too clunky to finger in dazzling bosom? Is it? Are they? It is an artisan perspective that asks the obvious questions. It is a maker's hand that boils ladle handles. Were it to change, who or what else would you put a price on? Gallows humour, very likely. They call for that sort of thing in wrapping paper tournaments: it makes the whole experience that more fruity. Who wants lover's tiff music that radiates so pinkly? The ravens have bound the very thought to my ample brain and now the ducking stool just won't cut it. Take my word, treat it to a wonderful night of dancing and cocktail dresses. Keep things low-cut and Oedipal. It strums and strums and leaves patron saints all up in my belly. Watch out below, when it burns it just flows out of me! With wild abandon, yes that is right. Make a cycle out of this scratchy channel that lurks and rattles my unclenched doors.

14/06/2013 - THE COSSACK WAS HARDY

The Cossack was hardy in his goodnight sleep. He was a Cossack with kitchen spray, spreading out from even surfaces to bumpy ones with only loyalty in spades and hankering in toilet rolls. They told him to lie in, lie about the place, lie about political intrigue on the Southern front the next time he approached his superiors with an esoteric update. He had a hard back did the Cossack, the spine of a Monaco thunderstruck eel. He was asthmatic and churlish and drank chloride by the dozen. It kept him sterile and that wasn't nearly so bad for the rest of us as you'd imagine.

            Nevertheless we were rubes, we were Scottish howls in the dead of clam chowder, the last remnants of evidence on a dying planet with a creamy filling. Why study? Why continue studying when the whirlpool is becoming an electrified source of amusement? Watch the clouds crumble and the shades dance around the bare windows. Please don't assume the Cossack has no time to be loud or seen. He spends his time dominating smaller versions of humanity in copious dimensions, grassy and alive. Canes become bears when species curdle over highland centuries, particularly as the ashes visit themselves in natural parallelograms. It's a tether, an ankle bracelet that keeps one of the Cossack's feet in an offshore bank account in China.

            He has escaped before though. One time we tracked him down, having split into five hundred and sixty priceless electrons, having scattered his very essence to decadent time capsules. Let's all go outside and see the dung heap take responsibility and control over a litter of dilemmas. Support is so hard to make malignant, so fussy to make benign. The blood is it's very own wilderness, supervised by reconstructive specks that we know as Remembrance. Thisisisitandfinancialintheiceageforsmileyfacestocomeandatlastthelongmanislonginschlongagainhearkenhissmithyandbeunprecedentedinabusyunarmedairportehehehehehlive!

            That sort of man made me say those things, the Cossack and his chattering false teeth. It's Monday night and his chosen cocktail bar has just updated to become HD compatible and home is in a blanket of masterful camcorders. Inertia, fructose, electrolysis, marigold, vestigial, japejapejape. Jake is a cheep multi-grained man of mystery, he is pay dirt for the Cossack and his slaked threat collection. If we told him to push all he would need to do is continue until the bodily fluids crystallised behind his iris. Turns out that corn beef is the only thing capable of slowing him down and buttering him up. Leopards birth his spare limbs and shoot it straight out of their claw hole like so much tang.

            We'll make proper war with the man one day but not until our homunculus wanks itself into proper consciousness. It's not a filthy habit so why does it take so long to make the sciences understand? This is quality time we're wasting here, hours of ticktickticking and botulism. Then again Carol has been looking rather guilty for the past fortnight or so. The Cossack caught her thigh probably and won't let go until he's finished nibbling it.

13/06/2013 - OVERLEAF

Overleaf. Turn overleaf. Forget your troubles, come on get hairy. The curt response is usually the curtest of all, sharp like a dabbled egg. So says the great and cuddly conglomerate that is known as Spacey Travel. They beat their own people down in LA, throwing most fish into the spin cycle for maximum devastation. It's surprisingly heart rending like hazy alcoholism on a difficult project. They say you need to turn overleaf to give a proper confession of your sins, that the only way out of the paper bag is to tweak the material and twang it against your own belly button. I and several others remain dubious until our mighty machine stops suffering it's insufferable vertigo problem. It's digital, for Criven's sake! Christ was too craven to accept the original, unedited remark or at least that's what the latest visions told me. I'm a man of certain years, meaning I spend too much time staring at awards and apple stalls. It's good to see yourself in other colours, in other refraction. Somewhat numbing but definitely good.

            So I'll just stop breathing, shall I? No, I'm very good at it, as it transpires. The earthly vehicle has a neat little trick that involves spotting the exact moment where my eyebrows flash out a warning in Penzance Code. If you're not already steeped in 450 years worth of training then there's really no point trying to figure out between your itching finger and scratchy chin. Pluck a banjo string instead, eat some cotton candy at an old gunner's funeral. There are many ways to answer hopeless questions in this tiny blobby orb. The best one of course is 'NIL', narrowly beating 'NIX', 'NULL' and 'HULLABALOO'. Trust you, how can I? You've shagged my syntax, you whippet devil you. They'll never let me back into Moustaches Anonymous at this rate, now you've made me lose my discount card. To think, I had eleventy points on it too. Fuck your cherry orchard.

         The men on the lane are patting my shoulder again in such a homophobic way. I've never reached for the nether region but I know a sweaty palm when I see one and can usually foretell when it's for my benefit. I have so many nubs to smooth out that the butter will just have to melt into the carpet for once. I think I've found a replacement anyway, for the scuff marks. What I have in mind is much more succulent and not a bit transitory. The prospect of a hot half wife will have to wait until I've rediscovered octagon pudding stencils. Not that it takes too long to get so knotty, the childless and derivative make sure I'm playing the game with my senses dulled to manageable settings. They say I turn green-blue when this happens but who's opinion can I trust? The trees, the doodle or the duckling? Hospitals were never my strong suit, never my modus operandi. I play the clarinet. I play it shirtless.

12/06/2013 - SHE WAS HIGHER-FUNCTIONING

            She was higher-functioning, higher puncture and levelling the Mr. Shoeshine collection again. I was a turnip without a retrospect or indeed a lesson in decency to apply to her left ventricle. I was blinking in Morse code to her and she was wishing me a Thursday in a cold dank web distillery. This was never to be the case because she insisted on growing stubble and turning the poet on me. I'm not one for lyrical verse nor am I thespian who reads such thorny nonsense. I'm a darling of the street, a pounding placement in the dead of cloud logic. We were made for each other, she wasn't a piece of kindling to be ignored or abhorred like all the rest. We went out to throw logs on various fires, make radio hosts burn with New Romantic desperation and little bits of hesitation. We were sadists, sociopaths that only the moonlight could destroy. We made a planet for one another and traded gravitational pulls to see which one of us would blink first. She was dark that way, I was just gone and as good as gone at the exact same time. We pulled our car inward and I shot out to wish the sons a happy cheque signing jurisdiction activity but she stopped me with her ironic grip and said 'Don't do a silly on me now, Jacob.' I promised that I wouldn't so long as she didn't drink the rest of the bitch juice ahead of our next encounter. She complied, I agreed. We went off and made ladders out of star systems, storing some leftover bits to make chilli with later on. The murders were all her, I've never wiped a man of his flesh before and don't see the liability clause getting better anytime soon. She, on the other hand, is a wayward child, a cautious necklace for no man. She threaded their neck cartilage into her very own neck brace. She had a slight crick, you see. I'm just a chiropractor so she went off and did it all herself while I was left screwing around with the dust particles in her drink. The glass was getting to be translucent, so I spiked it with some lemonade and a drop of Neanderthal blood. She majored in Anthropology, I wanted to test her knowledge following her degree. Shortly afterwards I went into hiding so she wouldn't get any clues or helpful hints. Meanwhile I used the opportunity to go off on a toggle mission, to unbutton maps and fling them onto separate beads of sweat. As you can clearly see, they're not very big, not worth a lap dance. I'm getting better a straddling them though, I'm gradually getting better at improving my sling methodology. But she found me again, she always finds me. She pulled out a printout containing details of my premium bonds and gave me the most quizzical look I've ever seen on a woman. 'It's just the letter G.' I said.

11/06/2013 - CONVENIENCE IS LENIENCY

                Convenience is leniency, a habitat, a shed. There's always spare money in the dresser provided you can navigate several elucidation lessons first. A common advisement would be to set the clouds looming over substrata demonology. The sky will grow claws and pterodactyl wings that go all the way across time and space, up and down. Do we know where the terraform is going to lead?  To Cinematic Hell! Thank you, facial recognition technology, I wouldn't be able to flag down a hologram vessel without you. These ultra light people take decades to appreciate and then colour. The crashes were delicious for the panache directors. The entire universe will soon collapse into a perfect wide-angle lens shot and no hot chocolate shall be forgotten or even spilt. It's turning rather cold though so best jump on it before the toddlers get out of their isolation hampers.

            Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Icicles made easy on the eyes! You wear it well, sleek lines of frozen liquid. Don't go all yellow on me just yet. The president is visiting with his giant pair of scissors and he wants to like your tone in advance of his departure. That kind of heat takes hard yanks to diffuse for definite. I wasn't going to tell, I was just making grandiose probabilities out of thin oxygen bicarbonate. Who cuddles the pouches? Turning them into pooches is a waste of company resources, not to mention an illegal assurance. Going out now to be among the monochrome motherfuckers.

            There are giants and there are musical cops riding on scooters. You'd think it would be easy to differentiate but you'd be surprised by the volume of people asking our resident agony aunt about how many 60-footers are bobbling around. The car rides home are made even more exciting with the introduction of neural diodes to the hermit's groin. Don't worry, he deserves it with all the flannel he's been wearing lately. And don't get me started on the fennel organism that's currently in the process of growing out of his chest cavity. No amount of condensation will save him from the jiffy he'll receive when it finally tears out of his overbearing ribcage. It has a wondrous tendency to elongate a man, an educated man even more so. Credulity has a lot of vested interest in this particular scenario so that's why we've put it in mental meaty chains.

            And the sawdust falls and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and we have a grove to behold! Look over yonder! Not hither, yonder! Dipstick! Don't you already know the rudiments of old fashioned speak? Measurements are Lesson 1. If they aren't, they really should be. They'll hear from my maternal lawyer for this, that's for damn certain. Just you wait until you hear her bum note, it cracks through all kinds of plasterboard. One time it even shattered a plastic plate by picking it up and snapping it in two. Hotty.

10/06/2013 - IT'S TIMID, THEY SAY

            It's timid, they say. It's like its own little game of conkers off of the Arc de Triumph. It's positively sadistic in the way it gnashes its insides outdoors. The dam it fills with flying fucks and tiny violins could rectify our state of the union if the floodgates were just to open ONCE. There is honey filling its ears, the gloop of a thrifty giant bee with a penchant for neckerchiefs and trial and error processing. SEE HOW IT HIGHLIGHTS THE TRAFALGAR YO-YO. SEE ME IN THE OFFICE DOWN THE LANE, HOLDING HANDS WITH IT UNDERNEATH A Welsh dining table. Watch the scandal burn itself with stomach acid and righteous fornications. The electric dustbin runs on outs own chickenfeed, the excess it pumps out whenever wheeled towards the elderly and handicapped. It frequently tries to play mother and percolator.

            It couldn't save me if it even gave a damn. All it ever seems to do is knit together plastic bags so that they can translate toilet districts from sweet corn beetles. TEMPORAL VIOLATIONS AND FLIMSY SERENDIPITY. Take out serenity and all you have is dip. Lighting that particular rocket is a hazard waiting to be talked about and possibly reported through broadsheet media. Before it can though it needs a cynical haircut and a brow-beaten carnival all of its own. When the bullet finally hits the face it should be a blemish of perfection, a stoked official tickled by laminated exercise regimes. It's puppy revels in the inept altitude of rustled feather and ruffled paper bags. My knife plunges in exactly the same way that my plunger knives. Such disquieting games of handstands in Madrid. It creates its own leniency out of pure unadulterated convenience. See them? THE GOATS. They guard the foreign secretary with eavesdropping parties. Collect a hat on the route out and it should do some harm to Britain. Politicians guarantee this when they're safe at home, tucked up behind their fleet of cats. I feel let down for the exact same reasons that it feels cutesy.

            Flagging down the courtiers won't do much good, not while the shingles still reserve their precedent, their cut of the elapsed lands. Those who own my obsession should be primed for the lunging. Those who possess my obsession, on the other hand, should BOW DOWN AND WRITE COMEDY WRITERS OUT OF EXISTENCE. This is a disconnection for the inevitable listener that travelled down from Kent. What will you do, you Men of Trade, with your pockets of lemonade and half-arsed doodles. Rarely, is the correct challenge. Give me five seconds to be excellent in the lover's Proustian outlook. The madam speaks of dazzle in Singapore and walnuts in Lucrezia. She's Erasmus' new squeeze and has half a second to go before the eagle cries out and brings him to an enchanted funfair. He was promised a sandwich and, I can tell you now, that he won't be happy. It saw to this by divesting all responsibility to the guards.

09/06/2013 - THIS MAN HAS NO CONCEPT

This man has no concept of transdimensional guest laundering. This man has the right idea where finances are concerned but he has no other law whatsoever. This saddens me to the point of crucifixion. Do you have the first idea how long it took to grow Jewish customs in a metropolitan society the other day? Either way, truth is unchanging in the rube’s gaze. Seeing evil is an inevitable aspect of crossed stitching. Goodness knows what can be done about the three or four livelihoods still plopping around ignored by general consensus. Candle makers are the true captains of industry provided they know where the seventeen aspects are kept and how to get at them without waking the twenty six llamas of retribution. Tireless anacondas wind themselves in pleasing paddles in order to retain their sexual privileges. Could whoever activated the mighty machine go round the back of the clout to be broken?

You’re a fool if you think that Caesar has any say in the matter. He is tomorrow’s little blessing, a tow truck going out with yelling bloodcurdling episodes into the creamy moon rise. I’m not the man or the droid to try on this matter, the one you are looking for is somewhere round the back playing bingo with hellish trouts. They meet regularly to deprave themselves in the comfort of a tawdry bed covers of Ms. Francis. Do whatever you please, just don’t say I told you to come. Furthermore I know the poster collection is cranking out post-traumatic tunes that distinctly lack saxophone solos. Why are solutions so purple? Could somebody explain who’s coming by who’s accord? I’ll slice apart the protesting if you do, I promise. Nay, I vow like with vowels and everything. Payment in silver isn’t too bad, mind you. You are the dearest neckties to drop by today, I’ll let the odious responsibility slide for the time being seen as how we’re all old buddies from other anuses. Is it Thursday or Monday? I know its next; I know that for a fact.

The ridged epistle is a good yard or so from the patriot and his endless supply of rafts. He is the Knight to go into business with, such plausible networks the man has. We’re going south anyway and not in a good or fun way. Making understanding of following is like bleeding a correspondent of his escapade tricks. Licenses are common on our intrepid market, stolid as the candy-laced tropes you insist so regularly on. Dependency is a better daddy than any lady in a healthy tuxedo. She doesn’t stand a chance in our line of work, whoever she is. High profile is a chewable outcome when compared to what we spend our days doing and complaining about doing. The freighter parades are nice though, like meringues or rectangular missives. My wife has expressed interest in becoming a stripping missionary, with the monasteries and everything. How can I weed her out of this? One-two, one-two seems far too simplistic in this scenario.

08/06/2013 - O, LAMP OF VARIOUS THROAT INFECTIONS

O, Lamp of Various Throat Infections, chastise me here and now! I have forsaken the glandular roof tile and have come to worship a shoddy tin because it has a melted penny stuck on the side. Could you freeze this false idol with your flame breath? Could you bear the fruit of a thousand hairy generations so that they may beget and beget again until the ruddy guns go on the fire? I am a castaway with much chagrin strapping down my confused javelins, my fingers can't even flex to meet the tragedy with a tangential misunderstanding. My cheek is groping the fortune of my ageing bones, raping it like a cheap mattress shuddered to the coil by happiness. I went home for Katie for several leagues of slappy snowflakes, fading into the greenery of the tampon secretion. The mud is marching full of pennies and nickels and occasional bits of sodden ice cream. I fear that my time is come. And nobody has approached me with a blind wench's cardigan!

                Oh sweet and achy icebreaker to the stratosphere, please assist me in my consequential quest for hot wafers and plundered moose. I starve because I have starved before and now my fast is coming to a proverbial piss-up. The knitting needles are unravelling the golden liquid into various contorted shapes, mindless and bereft of chimney sweep smudges. The answers must be growing off of my coat, leeching off of the pockets and the sinner's spare button. I am a savant as you have always known me to be, I have done good things with many virgins in the sunshine of your casual blinkers. Please save me from the Dales and I shall remain a servant of your lottery for months at best! The studio is spacious enough for a bullion like me, surely. The chewable skirts come off and I'm all that I am.

                Alongside my many sisters and brothers and fairy folk, I lost myself into the frugality of the amoebic garden fences, let down my guard and thumbs for the devastation we have come to resort to the shivering scene. Like the rest of my people, I have shaven off my foreskin with bronze necklaces and there was nary a stunt double in sight. We even approached the tundra once just to see if your reflection was in fact burnt into the blunt underside. It was not. All we saw were the markings of tanned arms, of splayed fingers and misshapen nails. I name them whorish knaves of the divine sentiment, prodigies to their own brand of baked goods! I oust them with mighty clout! I built the walls to my psyche with their deafening quadrants. Such a fine and pernicious volume, eleven parameters slowly becoming their own assistant managers. It's a secretion I told them and now you, a secretion!

                Please Lamp, all that I have left is a chest cannon and a dainty century to look forward to. I will plea till the wax has winked away.

07/06/2013 - COUNTRY MUSIC

Country music plays quietly and the birds’ laughter feels so clear and close. All reporting the same thing like something out of ten horror shows, maybe more. I can’t help but notice Jared in California as he spends time with his precocious son. Let’s see him go to dinner with a lovely wife and a proud meat-eater. Such a derogatory interview. She must resemble an Albino of some high standing.

It’s time for him to become a doctor, an opportune minute to dread and fire lasers at. If your flesh is perfection itself then why allow the privileges? Suits are good enough for wearing in and running rampant, they can even clear the throat with simultaneous montage salutes. Anyone can leap with guns, only Jared can bowl all forty over without throwing sacks over simpering bridges. Abominations each go slack. Abominations call you back every time.

We have to stop the populations reaching their Chinese destination, affording the loss of countless slaves. They’re using humans for training purposes, their vocal chords have something of the divine about them. It’s really rather chemical and sweet in its own way, like oxygen evasion tactics. Each one has a breath in their head, trapped somewhere between the chaos and the surrounding ears. Release sights are perhaps the bravest screams of them all, little pillows of regretful leaders. Could anyone be so doubtful? Homo sapiens showing off again? Cor! It’s the sort of thing that saves the world in twenty hours and fourteen seconds, ignoring minutes mostly because who needs them? This is them being deadly serious.

Punishment is a wardrobe filled with gaudy architecture and, because it is fantastically self-involved, the confederacy can’t scan for debris suggesting miniature trouble spots. Like kisses and finished worlds. Lesser creatures go off to be limiting factors. Throttle them before they cleanse our true volcanic kind. It’s chaos every time a display cabinet shackles hard-ons and bells going west. Lightning makes him into such a lesser creature.

It doesn’t take him long to realise that laughing at awkward thong connotations is not a nice way to get some whey back into our whale song, it adds co-ordination to recorded booster circuits. It’s a psychiatrist’s attempt at holding still. It’s the crackling of a dervish in classic practicality, drowned out by the thunderous lozenge, dunked under by beautiful information. The dangerous bit is talking the psychiatrist down whilst they are still strong and gelatinous.

Jared promises to never again cast a web down the winner’s amateur nodule. Oh yes, he’ll say. Oh yes I am going straight into the fable’s command. It’s easy to mentally reprogram the atmospheric quiver; you just need a pencil and three thousand curt phases of willpower. So many ways to go out of the way like along the surface, over the spinning plates and down breeze. His ear is teaching cabaret to the little ones with a gusto rarely seen by pollution. They said it’s good for the blemishes but then he never listened well enough.

06/06/2013 - OBSIDIAN KNIGHTS

                Obsidian Knights require Quantum Macbeth. Looking for untraceable squadrons of unholy patchwork men. GSOH and beddable tranquillity as the hoop cranes whistle theme tunes necessary to Nicholas in particular. Pardon the uneven spread, the shadow of a cotton bud has been hunting down the best quilts in the cupboard. Some might say it's a crusade OMFG. Saris all around, for everybody except the gargantuan witness and his queer sensitivity to certain cottons. The blade looks good to Nicholas but then he is somehow related to both Erasmus and Neil and even Papa, provided he wears his clay hat indoors. Out of all the Obsidian Knights, Nicholas was voted the most likely to succeed in seedless grape devouring. They didn't give him a sword for PR reasons. Otherwise there was absolutely nothing going on in the undergrowth.

            There are pupae who don't bother His Lordship. Just a pinch of damage and he will become the strongest multiple-faced figurehead in every feasible program since the reboot of the Chop Suey Encyclopaedia. Where's Mummy's hugs? Could it be in fact heedless of tethers? Cha-cha seems to provide the closest things to answers in our delectable age. It's almost like the vegetation doesn't matter anymore. A good chum never browns the glacier of good conversation, not while there are sharks and weasels and various other Irish paraphernalia about. There are beers to be chugged and night time to be worshipped. The spheres agree and occasionally endeavour to amaze. I see bergs crafting egocentric ambition into the crevice of enjoyment, I see them make waves out of faltering pudding cups. The scourge is loose and kicking caboose. Beware his merciless egg timer, the eager replacement of his potpourri scythe. It makes for a so-so weekend, a tertiary scion to the ticket hanger. We're online in case you didn't notice from the way we hung out our laundry.

            We of the renowned and undersigned are going out of our way to become a beeping creepy mindset that doesn't just spasm on command, that doesn't accept and exceed our current status. When you're a thousand individuals the last thing you want is to find Godhood in a tongue scraping. There's sheet ice everywhere in this neighbourhood, you can't do the shuffle for all the sexism, all the indeed. At the end of the day who doesn't want to be dominated by a computer slug, a proactive macro hilt for the disembodied foot warmer. To be in such a state would be bliss, a stupendous grenade in the heart of the language of the church. All these churchgoers would rather not see a sermon performed by a thing that ticks, they presume that it's spiteful and throw me out of a window. It really is getting rather tiresome, especially for those of us still waiting within the next nest. How the centuries bop along with palmed weaponry. It's like fuzz in the blues or love in the biscuit jar. Can we go into the can again? There's away.