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.