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.