He’s allowed to now; he’s achieved his dream and not a dream to be
sniffed at. Instead one finds that this particular dream deafens the other
forty seven senses in such a way that blood doesn’t leak through every orifice but
instead goes south and seep out through the twinkly toes and the torso (in
certain parts). It brings ‘living the dream’ a whole new meaning, one that is
coloured red with specks of brown to keep the collusion soluble. Who wants an
inflated trapezium, after all? Who wants a dream that goes on and on and off
and on again without an opening for you to crawl out of when the going gets
especially tough? It’s a reaper’s benefit, that’s what it is. A reaper from the
Civil War, mind you, who wants a reaper who’s otherwise? These particular
reapers are good for the dream, they keep it tightly in line and rope in its
better halves with reticent retinas. It’s really rather precious (provided you
provide the proviso at the correct moment of impact). Who wants to introduce
the world of supermen to my jokey fairy? Who wants to see how that sort of shit
would turn out (probably bad)? Who isn’t a dragon these days for saying such
statements as ‘I imagine so’ or ‘So would Travis provided his nether regions
were all tied up’? Good and proper? I think not. I bet you think it too but you’re
just too gnarly to challenge the status quo, not while mummy’s sister’s husband’s
around. The third makeshift platform is rising and continues to rise into the
stratosphere whilst making its intolerable whirling noise. It’s the kind of
noise that scarpers apart and turns up the heat until baking starts to flow
out. Bring the girl you like, if you like (she’ll make for a fine air hostess
to lead us astray and/or litigation). It’s all eventual, all non-rectifiable.
The piledriver cones are displayed according to height and definition in Irish
folklore so don’t expect the way out to be as forgiving as my personal wind-up.
Trolleys go out in a flash of light and seem to know where to duck and where to
dodge. It’s not a question of when, trolley’s don’t cognate like we few
inanimate objects do. It’s a world of words and the movements that par t them,
that’s all we need to take from philosophy. It’s a manifesto all of its own, an
honourable way to indoctrinate the deadly capers into our sect of the Miner
Sector. These are our plausible demands, as per instruction from the almighty leader himself (whoever he
is):
1.
Brogues are good.
2.
Don’t forget to wash behind your sphincter.
3.
Plasterboard everything in church. If it brings
its hands together, plaster it harder.
4.
Don’t dilute the gentleman. Never dilute the
gentleman. He does well to keep his tie aloft.
5.
Chance would be a fine thing if nothing else
seems feasible. Run with it.
6.
Leave me out.
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