Wednesday 17 July 2013

17/07/2013 - HUMMING ALIKE

            Humming alike. Tiramisu and tapioca. Padlocks made of exploratory need-to-know bacon bits. The scrums are the ones to take it up with currently, they produce the most virtue and food waste. The answer is always incest to the question of holiday barbs. Do you want extra grub for your fresh fillet with decently proportioned pauses in between? Interference with the fence will not be permitted while I read pages and do constant riveting battle with department heads from other companies. Is it true that more than one thing is too much to cope with when breathing through the chakras? Several beans seem to think so, the beans that bob around the official bend. They pop when aubergines make a hypocritical arrival, spout Yorkshire dialect clichés with egg-fried rice. Some things are indeed seasonal and no amount of excuses will cause them to wait around with sexy videotape scandals. Batteries break for lunch and depart with Darwinian contention. It's probably more deliberate than wheat or at least that's what they saw and said. Humming alike.

            What is a calorie callous? Whiffs of suspender pass through the ventilation system. It electrifies the pope's lingerie collection and creates a vivisection between him and his sexually appealing hat. God foretold a time when he would overcome adversity through humming his own self-made theme tune and shooting an army of bloodied ants into the heart of a gas station. He did all this without a moment's quip or a contemptible time-out. Meanwhile the saxophone was plucked and drawn like a compact spoon in a feast of the mentally superior slippers. It was foggier there than I've ever seen it before, as if a wiry dragon had eaten too much too fast and sighed vehemently. Did you see her face, her little beard as he did this? It jumped.

            The cops were eventually moved and something was said in passing to the crock of shit who sampled the overall distraction like a buddy. It's now or never and the word nigh is too scary to implement with nothing more than  British supermodel and an ill-fitting tool belt. They can plump the revolutionary through independent venues of the soul all they like, knowing that the ozone won't do anything about it. It wouldn't dare. The year is almost up and the tap shoes are fading into the echoing green. It's a likely scamp who deserts my flagrant exposition, it's a fastidious buffoon with fleet index fingers and deft soles. The cops are coming all the way from university and they're claiming for the bus journey so that their coffers won't wail this quarter.

            Peter and Ann are the birthright of Erasmus, the progeny of his terse tongue and snail-like teeth. As the actions and transactions and reactions and fractions are running simulations off the back of a camel, we have nothing left to scrape out a crooked banjo tune with. It's more desirous than delirious, it makes the extra cumbersome in Jacksonville. The location remains undisclosed, mister.   

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