The Rectory of Hazards lampoons the very variants that make us granted individuals in our Sunday best with matching pyjamas underneath. At least the sex is good, at least the pillow talk is adequate. I’m growing old and groaning all the way to the grand opening of mister mellow.
Mister Mellow is a
shifty bloke with garish orange socks that glow in phosphorescent party
physics. He is really that good but doesn’t show off out of fear that someone
will come around and play a little too long with his hilt. Would Hitler concede
that it was early days? How about those disquieting restless broomstick of
love? He seems to be a little dot in your matrix of police tackles. Could you
recognise the plausibility of rape, rakish behaviour and just snickering. I
want to live in low mountain areas where just tall grass snakes dig around for
scraps of pretty Royal Mail letterheads. Why are there nuptials from all the ways?
Couldn’t a cake making for a garden fence clear it without the aid of a double
life?
What does it mean to be
starring in an Edinburgh? There’s a fucking girl in the entry station, there’s a
boarding school in Canadian phonics! You’re all damp for a kiddie with family
living at length. There may well be a PhD to wear as booties from the age of
twelve. Mister Mellow was probably there, stroking amoeba and providing special
train services with grubby noses. The majority is usually sent across to cantaloupe
causality for apparent sakes and babyish deliverance. Haughty hands usually
grasp and strain the loving waves of regret.
You must face another
day before the yellow light becomes too well crafted and maintained and
eventually lost, like her. You know the one, the one behind all the clout and
narrow passages. Cowboys may well be the people you originate from but never
accept their ideals for your own: the wind-swept conversation concentrates all
the stupid language you might spew or spout. Meanwhile he runs all the way and
back again before the sun just talks about the lady in the stripy jumper, the
one who wants it all but will never strike.
Who is he? A man with needs.
They call him something unpronounceable without a surname or a break to breath
accordingly. Nevertheless he works sometimes as a graveyard shift nurse using
leotards and slippery gunk to reinforce his Sikh law. The harbouring of
containers goes practically unnoticed by him, he conceives puritanical
adventures for the hirsute consultants among us. He is a devil to lose
precisely because of the horns on his head. They regurgitate living tissue.
Erasmus claps to him,
Neil pores over his foggy lore, everyone else merely holds a key. His language
is dead and shaky at that.
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