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.