All becomes clarity,
stripped back and slammed aside. The myths, these repetitious myths that do
believe in themselves and don’t sweep away the piles of salt around them. It’s
like a blanket thrown from the balcony at the wrong time, just a few seconds from
the premeditated incident and perhaps a few yards. Twisting the pages inward
violates the wood carver and all his alarmingly racy images. We are occupied by
put downs and crowd selection. They base it all on shoe size and little else;
it’s a mesa of mischief. It’s sad to see our chances weaken along with the
followers and their beautiful tooth sucking.
After twenty three
years the Irishman gets to exact his liable wish with all the hustle and bustle
of a spilled cup on the lap of the pope’s clerk. It feels like burning but
channels inspiration on a more humanistic level. Surely we’ve exceeded our
continuance of cable shaming. Let us hurt those who seek to wash away special
notices with our flexible cleaning appliances. We have to see, we have to see,
we have to become the knowledgeable trolls. Can you show us how to be
omnipresent? We’ll take the rest of the trick from there. Just you watch, tyke,
we’ll manage it well enough.
The thing is with
tradition is we grew it out along with our hairs and reshaped it according to
specification just like those silly cuts we insisted on in our heyday. All it
took was three years to scare us aside with ironclad witticism. They constantly
beat so surely we should beat back with bongo supremacy. As long as we have the
endurance gloves, we retain the rights to the upper hand. We’re thinking of
turning our hands to a musical. Watch out for those key changes, they defy all
reasonable computation. Sewing the circus pockets can only get you so far in
this biz.
For thirty nine eons it
has been this way: we alternating between being knocked down or bowled over by
the respite of soul-searching, them just being those guys. Those guys are built
for hating; they are custom made with glue and bits of kettle. Asterisks tickle
but ultimately oppress, we realise that now and so should these fuckers. I don’t
mean to be inclusive of their flabbergasting ecosystem but we all need to mesh
together and see just what turmoil we can eradicate and what we can safely
irradiate instead. However negotiation still goes on, our man of the street
getting a shuffle step closer to the outside chance of meeting a drunken chief
on his way home.
So who is that making a
hole anyway? The one over there with the drill and the blazer and the safely knotted
sandwich. She looks to be a potential union recruit, shall we try? Somewhere
down the line she might make a good free-thinking individual but for now we’ll
probably keep her a fine example of futz. Check out the arse too: something of
a treacle dive, I’m sure you’ll agree.
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