24/09/2013 - NOTHING EQUALS THE SPLENDOUR

Nothing equals the splendour of twenty seven countries applying magic to their leaked documents. This could mean anything, a draught of design or a designated draft or anything equating to Vulcan disillusionment. Ah, a spirited debate! How it snaps the hoe within thirty seconds of contemplative quiet! It makes all men wretches bearing wrenches on their awkward shoulder blades. The sales are encyclopaedic rhetoric, a game of la-di-dah on every available games console at every recommended retailer. To be so sure is to be Russian indeed!

                About two or three years ago, the pale-faced 'pretty much' escaped the Token Cockney's lips and splintered its way through an entire elevator shaft filled with egg shells. The glamour was too much to behold and slap bang and slap dash. It was intriguing to be a scientist trapped in a cellular compartment, fondling a circular component as the winches come calling in. How can they still be itchy after all this time? The shouting is a soothing composite, a regular header for concrete misandry. Don't stop everything whilst on a poor man's bike, it's a cheap trick fixed onto the back of a black actor's glasses. All it really takes is a bit of complacent wandering in fatuous dragon badlands and perhaps a quick visit to the lavatory to knock her head off, whoever she might be that's inside.

                It seems to be a mix-up mixture of cock-up blooper blinking, this is the will of God's delicate feet. They ache at the prospect of wearing bloody sandals again, especially in hot weather. God prefers to go bald and not act like its big thing in public. He made Hell into watered down Italian cuisine, specific with rapiers. It's time to be delectable: a shit and a wank in a 'Let me out!' The cracks are forming in the author's dedication and blood is ricocheting off of the poor sod's colt. Confession takes a lot of asking, history begging questions again and all over again to prove its forgiveness of the stark.

                The Madam of Oft will probably get time off for good behaviour, provided she exposes her thyroid gland to the press. The men in hats with cameras need to know about every little synapse in her head and the other bits and bats rustling around in her trooper vessel is a good enough sort of start. Withdraw your combs and let go of God's admission, wanting leads to yearning and yearning leads to the fraying and foxing of invaluable pumpkins. Just start the tap off and see, these monologues run on then along.

                All the tall women are maxing out their lungs with beef and household appliances because the numbers on their calculators don't quite mesh with the configurations they see in the waking hours of their head. It's going to turn into a stand-off at the Mediterranean, it's going to end in a lonely man sewing his wife into a master plan for Heaven. The Madam shall last in the opposite grove. At peace. At peace.