31/08/2013 - ALL OF THE PICTURES WORK

            All of the pictures work but only in a Northern way. It's melancholy, scotch mist across a stuffed child's shoulders, whistling through the plots and subplots therein. The experimental herd goes out past the hills to shut down most unworthy topics of pert conversation. They are a hundred million strong and charge in on horses with wheels and firecrackers. The original French for this was something hypnotising and illustrative of assorted trout. I encountered other metallic wonders with my usual brand of maddening malarkey such as the ninetieth clock of boorish wax. You find most of its constituent parts in New York, wrapped in bags of lumpy custard but nobody's ever going to notice. The Erotic Chronicles chart the naturally progressive reviews of this custard-coated clock but the one bit I want to read are the crinkles near the middle, the ones that smell of lavender grass.

            There are many things writhing above and below the furled fragrance of nasty mysticism. Can we be comprehensive of dark matter for fifteen years? Can you ever hope to parp in the cheek of God just to show your significance? I'm sure it's made of silicon, it's always made of silicon. The entire Eastern hemisphere is tantalised with the prospect of imaginative silicon, the stuff of feeling sex all along its threshold. Amidst the usual passage of kinship in scientific development, I will shift you into a biro. This biro will be made of both wood and steel and other electronic bits and bats. Needless to say, it will be tremendous in its glorious babble, fantastic in its alluring waste of time. It's all chewable too, a fine way to work the jaw when whiling away the topsy turvy analogies of temporal movement. It makes me feel triumphant like a rock splurging on didactic platitudes that lap and lap and depend entirely on what I'm writing.

            I could believe in a signal to noise, the pain that swiftly became pan, the pan which died and regenerated into manna. I love all the talk about my baking prowess, it makes me feel like some sort of guardian angel sat atop a crossroad sign with a worry on my brow. If you eat cheese in front of me I will spit tuna into your line of sight, it is the way of all things scrummy. On Tuesdays I might even throw a bit of mayonnaise into the bargain but it comes out as it comes out. On Thursdays I will most definitely go 'ah' and spasm like a rabbit. I wish for an underwater burial, with diving bells and dietary requirements and everything. I could swim around the cops for a little while at least, as I lose my floating privileges and fall into my own jammy comic book. I'll probably remember the full-length stretch I did when the hawker pulled the stairs out from under me. It seemed like it would hurt but it was merely terrific. At that moment, I will feel just like a reprint.