30/10/2013-31/10/2013 - SO YOU SHOULD

So you should. And so you should. And so you should go on the scavenger hunt. And so you should be bad, as bad as bad can be when bruised by action heroes. And so it should be. And so it should be done on tiny little feet with casual jousting. It's a dangerously implausible conceptual design that goes up with the super jump and down with the print sales. I'm glad. What sorry pipe down is festering in a blind man's corner as the uncle plays out the dreaming? The sky could deliberate with the best and highest politicians whilst delving into poetical Peon Pigeon English. Could you train the programme to learn adventures from the perspective of electrified fences? Maybe it's time to establish an indium nun according to the blobs beyond the vestibule sunglass stand. Didn't. It could be nothing but creative but it's creative for nothing particularly creative. Watch out for the glass as it wears away and stirs itself into cold fissures. Tell us probably what to do and we might enter a boss battle for the good of our health. This mathematical formula is really hard but we can crack it with cumulative damage and a few rollerblade balderdashes. There is a pattern, much as we'd like to distrust the bird wreckers and their codes of pussy and yet I remain just as cuneiform as before. A priori. The heart travels the episode and switches on the stove for the little dawgs and frat boys. There's a dude deep inside who gets sick of this constant consonant skill storm and sets up Wednesday for grandma and her gaggle of street policeman. They were normal clothes over their super secret hive mind. You fail to certificate and levels of individuality will kill down the dreamy gymnastics and the conclusions they tend to avenge. We bought too much, the members are starting to complain in their Hindi tongues and their crooked fingers are unwinding the special versatile video tape that has no magnetic strips nor monstrous misgivings. Get out you gross black seamstress legs, shrivel up into something less bizarre that requires no pumpkin geometry or doorway crossways. Let's go check out the other buildings and sheer the anthology with piggish brusqueness, it's rushing back and forth with hateful rotundity. The three dimensional service features spooky music and a half-decent example, it primarily develops the workplace but not enough so that anybody notices. I don't make noises with staples normally but the black humour is increasing the humidity of the room, draining it of all humility and cocoon art. That is the hinge. That is the choo-choo that peaces out with basement horticulture so fuck the genuine article with its theatrical atmosphere. Every part of this building is terrified and yet strangely relaxed by the doppelganger callout. These voices drain down the corridors and tell every washing maid to take a hike with a few horses that remain within the carpenter's three walls. A door comes to life and dolls go off on tricycles. Zap.

            Zip. The loggers are capricious and filled with spiritual spit on the loose-handed locks of goal orienteering. An astronaut's mobile has been located on the lower freight elevator of the four star hotel, perhaps we should liken it to something pretty funny and from without. The sawing lets out primarily but the promotion defers cream cracker sandwiches with Lasagne qualifications. Wobble. Quiver. Where'd the ice come from? Who knows where it melts to in those sacrilegious little telescopic dots. Your swordsmanship gulps down the main ingredients of a Waldorf Salad and shatters any illusion that prospectors still exist and use their various tools and implements to torment horny teenagers in their wet, fondled car seats. The pencil breaks in two and all topical reasoning floats out from the lead, becoming its own big, curly diploma in the sky. We are all in the virginal margins because the maternity ward won't call until its half past seven. Livelihood marches out clowns on its own volition and perturbs the hearses with rosemary trees and the blackguards that protect them voraciously. The aardvark constitutes a bill of rights and rites from every tick box at the blue end of every red form. Vacuum cleaners approach with informal footsteps as if to challenge the pretty blonde Catholic in her standing and sometimes her sitting position. I have inspiration, my own brand, and it tastes of moist cloth rolled around in telephone wires until starchy and ready for mass consumption among the ballsy tree climber people. There's nothing awesome about this product ID, it makes the body of work all armoured and extraneous to Ghastly Toby's lollygagging fixture. Happiness makes the direct hit and lands its blacks right in the keyhole as if it were a kisser from 1963. Themes and effects, themes and effects, it's all about the themes and effects. It could be distributed with a fresh and clean outlook on the modern music scene but that may stray too far into the indie pocket and never get out again for all the lint and coarse language sweeties. Allow me to take this product tour while you set off the jetsetter's fireworks just to see the face on his briefcase melt down and rub off in a supportive learning space with all the necessary, applicable facilities. One size fits ambulant insomnia as it cracks through the tough part of a grand old mahogany tree. Neil is making a daring escape according to the principles apropos his hissing misalignment and henceforth unusual amazement scale. He lives in a village hall, a small, closed-off village hall for the duration of every coming storm just to see if anyone will come looking for him and bring him some tea and a few important documents to amuse his disquiet. The sequins on his short trail Valhalla as if in preparation for a bait and switch scheme involving a small bakery. The night is young and could use the tender icing.

29/10/2013 - IT RAINS LIKE COLLEGE GIRLS

It rains like drunk college girls in red sparkly dresses, their tights all lathered up and flung over their heavy shoulders. The sky shudders at the thought of another bottle on the last wink of the lust that circles and grinds across our hearty hearts and bendy straw legs. The big but is one that often gets left behind in preference of the chosen one, they just pick him out of the bag and she does his/her thing. Noughts. Cleanliness is next to cuddling in Sheffield. The taps runneth under the regulated speed limit for the first four weeks of good behaviour. And psychotic medication gets looked on with crackerjack vacation, a placid expression erupted by milky blinkers and a few bin liners here and there. As for the manager they wanted to spruce up, he has no back with which to glide around, he has a napalm stuck to the inside of his ribcage. He is surprisingly cool with this, he even makes jokes though they're often at the expense of black women in wheelchairs. He is Bosnian. This living detector yanks off his quick quirky knuckles and renames a few of the teams that play around in his head space without proper documentation or even a perky search warrant. The living detector is a soft touch with the women's netball team because who can really say no to ladies who tie up their hair and thump balls for a lark? The only downside is that the very thought of the brunette shifts his mind to the rectory without authentic sound bridges. The inside of the very nature of living detectors demand that people talk about them with a squeaky, popping concoction of fear and salesmanship. He made Colorado, before it was merely a shoddy portmanteau that terrorised local Irish villages without mercy or even minded mascots. But we'd all rather blow raspberries than suck up to his squinty impression of Jessie on the toilet. All weddings should go around made of sugary clouds filled with cleaning fluid and perhaps a few under the counter tropical hashish nibbles. All art forms should gel and gas their still life depictions before they gain sentience and ruthlessly eroticise granite countertops. As the bishop said to his beloved, now a former actress of the gentlemen's persuasion: YOU COULDN'T BE MORE OF A CENTIPEDE, MY DEAR. YOUR FEET ARE MANY AND YOUR IDEALS ARE BLISSFULLY FEW. This is swiftly followed by a chainsaw chase that leads into an erect form of the night time choir as they belt out a whistle tune in the style of hammy jazz. The leaves are all folding themselves into vibrations and pretending they can actually do something about the current outbreak in Syria. The wizened people from under my homogenised bed do everything in their power to invite and subsequently disinvite players from the big ice hockey match. As far as Saturday nights in Cyan go, the grudged could be a lot more manipulative if requisitioned by dry foot fiddlers and their bountiful board rooms.

28/10/2013 - LET'S GO DOWN TO THE TROLLOP YURT

            Let's go down to the Trollop Yurt, where the swing daddios are out for blood and yeast taints their hybrid skin like spandex on a cow. They pay homage to the malignant exclamation mark, openly worshipping it in front of their dwarf parents without the lengthy anecdotes. The words give in to swathes of silken strap-ons and appalled palindromes, submitting in five quintessential ways that will hitherto remain nameless in spite of their credible use in back garden politicking.

            Variety staggers their blind logistics and creates stumps out of the many limbs of farce, drinking deep from the varicose veins, drinking in the radio sweat. The show shows itself out of the shower and buys a buxom ticket for buxom buoyancy before letting its metaphysical hair down at the Doe End Bar.

            I've been in this town long enough to learn that green lights mean help is close to hand but I'm still yet to truly appreciate the concept without the incomparable aid of hefty signposts. You've been in this town long enough to be well in spite of all the naysayers and other afro people, in spite of all the bile they set alight just t see if we can feel empathy for sacred fluids. We can't. We can't take your car without taking my laptop and perhaps a bottle of mutual champagne lotion to christen the saviour of our naked jaundice day. Pretty soon it becomes a case of a race around driving tracks anyway.

            This is exactly what I've been talking about with my loose leaf partner, this is exactly the point where the shark is jumped over and remains in a perpetual state of vicarious exhaustion. The miniature world closes in its gills and grows out into brothers that feel different things depending on the strength and direction of the wind. It doesn't have to be magical but that does usually help speed up digestion of repetitive matters. It's a truth too akin to wrinkled vessels, it ruins its own moments with victorious fist bumps and elaborate toilet water dances.

            These loops are killer fodder, these loops at your feet. The loops currently at my feet probably won't do much at all aside from tighten and tick off socialists. I'm passive aggressive but even I know when to let rope go and get back to work. It's my humble duty to inform you that the tea party won't be commencing until you open out the hat trick and show exactly how it is done without making any sly digs at economical matters. Good people die every day because of the fat fryers that continue to belch out internal combustion kisses in the rarefied speak.  Drool is the only blotch on the lip of freedom, it is the lasting imperfection that no woman can ignore. Even the transgender community will come out and videotape your excuse for such lackadaisical hygiene. Even the dudes will slap you a rotten one. Your only solace will be God's limitless credit card advert.

27/10/2013 - IT'S TIME WE WORE RED DRESSES

It’s time we wore red dresses in the sun to thoroughly practice our peacenik tragedy. But where is it going? That’s the real quandary that debases fundamental ten year olds. What’s the secret? Why the secrecy in summing up? It’s time we gave each other keys for our disreputable locks so the sales can really go through the roof. Look at what the phone number dragged in! An answer, I suppose! But have you tried everything? Like the cleansing actions? They come recommended by hamper fairies and just keep arriving at freedom of bird shelters. This land is under threat of the reared young, a quarter of them to be specific. This land will hold you to random with bushy-taled endangered atmospheres.

Go ahead and give me cash for the stuff, I’m the courier for your fake tan breasts and empty toilet rolls. It’s a classic tale of swinging on vines and colouring lets out the fragrant fat man from his own personal debtor’s prison. You are a chump that lives on the street by comparison. Could you help me out with all the sex Erasmus is having? He has a disassociative personality and tails of ginger hair. Let me buy you one buddy who moves forward with his mixed signals and protracted innocence. It’s time to go to the tequila factory with sleazy ageing. Could we order a pizza from the birds nest and let the honey out of the trap whilst antibacterial comedy feels comfortable?

Is it really so hard to find a maker of giant pigeons? Your bad with the beat box and undeserving of your medallion of shapely waists. Let’s say goodnight to the executive producers as they tick off the ice cream cardboard cut-outs. To say I thought I could do it is a lie, I could do it with a hairdryer but that would cost you more than any clean beauty salon. Let’s act out the frenzy with all the pigtail trimmings and blowhard business suit beards. They say it’s the little things that decide when time shakes and exactly what shakes it. You might as well develop mastery of facecam with festive calmness. The other offer is no doubt marginally better but it certainly isn’t quite as contemporary in its cheapness. This is another reason to check the design carefully before overthrowing the vampire colonies.

Could we like it? Could we become an arcade? Could we press the quarters with waterfall fingers? Could we like it? Could we be kindly? Could we get kidneys? Could we be receptive to new ideologies and states of thinking without the indirect intervention of press? Could we let them loose? Could we teach advance classes? Could we make pregnancy seasonal? Could we go dancing? Could we like it? Could we postpone sexual intercourse? Could we sit at home worrying about sixteen pound video games? Could we be between versions of sadness? Could we like it? Could we suck at it? Could we stick at it?

LET'S GO HOME.

26/10/2013 - ODDS AND ENDS BESEECH YOU

Odds and ends beseech you, twist the faucet now or never say never. You are here and so am I. Friendships rarely work in this Grand Disappearance, the watery city is trickling over with honeysuckle figure eights and fours in order to grope the tyrant with the lazy accent and the tight tights. It is true what they say; this is the highest humiliation to ever attain and should not be done lightly, let alone misty-eyed. In fact, allow me, I’ll be butler to your grim cowl. I’ll pour out the remains of the cinder block and then maybe we can get around to figuring out what constitutes a diplomacy in an alternative pathway where secretion of the glands is twice as yucky as it used to be back in the 50’s. It’s a light with buckteeth! That’s what the newspapers actually said about them!

You should know that I know that you are suddenly aware of your petty ignorance in the face of flier physics. You should also be informed whilst in the safety of this environment that no musical troupe will be feeding into our ears until after the worms have finished their supposedly thorough check. The ingratiation is a mild toxin that’s not worthy of mention within these lines or the white space between and around them. The mistress will see you soon enough to return her snow globes and perforation sheets. Her hands will be tied behind her back, just like you asked with that wispy mouth of yours. Letting go of the bursary is indeed the hardest and most alcoholic thing to do whilst avoiding your pillage.

This is the mating call that leaves behind its young, this is the chance of a lifetime held aloft by yawning feet and tidy metric measurements. It is the bastard that keeps looking back, or so they say, he attaches his spirit according to the length and breadth of his ward. He lacks clout when wearing binoculars. Long distance borstals, duffel coat tenements: it’s all about winning the greedy location back from its backstreet brawling trends. Blood runs close to the teeth because it likes to see the hunter, it makes him feel alive with scientific passion. There’s hair gel on the kitchen counter whenever it pays a visit to the governor. Nobody wants to be the scarpering, cunning bruised cheek of an old man in his triplicate years, it proves too well to be uncooperative and that has generally been accepted as the only way of looking at the factory floor.

Bread and water and famous TV detectives make for livid watching and limned waiting. Is dad coming back for the far distance of death? Is your son going to sit down with his ears hanging off? These questions are never reciprocated by receipt, never firmly bequeathed. The only question that truly matters is: have you been good? This is the one that always makes a killing amongst its rollerblading gaffer coffers, the occupants that make a habit of coming straight back.

25/10/2013 - CALENDAR'S REVERT

                Calendars revert, revolt and divert and intermingle with the outsider to form a badge of trust and 

inflexible vowing. It culls the midnight air with light switch misery and ties the trial together with bits of string 

and kettle wires just to show that it can hold stuff in its natural state. It creates errors, establishes aches in 

the system, bugs in the pedestal and all other miscellany. The world lets loose its information and undergoes 

a thoroughbred change in lot and wattage. Grandmas become a much-loved food source and communities 

stop minding their gates and their ladders for just a midlife. The landlord has been here for months, rectifying 

a colony of rhetorical devices just to fill out the caves.

            Sponsors are done numbering their projected product placement. The favoured question becomes 

another promise of crazed glaziers invading root beer factories with vampire strength. This is connective 

tissue, an appliance for flowery smocks and their red-ribbon wives that hang off all their 'marvellous' ideas. 

Within seconds, it can become a turn up for the books and then devolves into a chance of boiling and 

broiling and various other heated calamities. Human flesh ashes at the surreptitious touch of just one of these 

butterfly wing emergencies. Throw away all neatness just like the gay abandon that people supposedly still 

slog around with them these five minutes. Rescues here are not worth the discussion, they're just a 

breathalyser test for yeasty brains and chubby hooves and all their counterparts in various realtor realities. It 

will definitely happen to those who aren't, again and again.

            The cricket game on the shoreline is a lie about a lie lying on an exercise in routine. The snap and rattle of wood on leather will turn everything immutable into something fraudulent by comparison. This shoreline smells distinctly of chlorine and the sweat some gentlemen get when beating their lovely wives. As times guzzles their youth away, the detention grows more and more concerned with isometric palaeontology. From now on, life everlasting will engage the readership with finger paint. The readership is mostly comprised of marmalade lemurs and their sugar substitute cousins from the Western Himalayas, the creatures with the wide cars and fast eyebrows.

            Living long has come into its own and it appears has managed to metabolise the toothy grins of mongoloid skull shells. The helix runs off with its numbers all in a tizzy and whips the concrete matter into a creamy soufflé. The bowlers are registered forth and at the ready for freckled turnover and bespectacled turnaround. The business compounds harpoon language into tight-cornered boxes filled with football manager stunts and horrendous hair stylists who run their profits into the ground and through the substrata. There's nothing more tender than the sight of sheer fabric choking the wrinkled fellow from politics as he tries to involve himself with broadcasting past his useful hours. The allegedly sexual dreams of foam will follow him as he straddles the graves of his constituents and sons.

23/10/2013-24/10/2013 - THE MOUSTACHE IS NEW

The moustache is new, the mouthpiece has become beholden to a larger object, has become a myth in the shadow of a grin. A petunia slipped up the water spout and denied evolutionary physics just for the sake of science fiction that is really hard to address. Whatever happened to the dude in space? Whatever possessed him to become an agent of the CIA? Did they even have a party agent in the CIA before his imminent reprisal? Could they curmudgeonly decide this way? Who initiates? Why let go?

            This is the point ahead of all time. This is a freeloader going upward and heavenward and licking the lift buttons will do exactly that to you, you fools. This is a reason for hearkening to the ergonomic surgery and playing out the field theory with empty hands and greasy palms. This is a man with a bank account that becomes more worthy by the seaside. A holy man may come down many hymns and address every little minor detail with the reflexes of a gazelle. He is not a woman and that seems to do just right by him and his white sky with glass ceiling equipped. At least he didn’t sell his soles to Filipino Ass Merchants or Other Men From the Rectory. This business of running a mouth would have to turn him out of pockets and decompose his household appliances with tongue whipping. As for the trekker, he is condemned to double indemnity and won’t reside in fealty to a singer he doesn’t believe in. To make sure of it you are being sent out on a case to gather the rest of his erstwhile children and use them to hold down their own mothers so that we might be able to fill their brains with ebbing and flowing ideas of reducing this despicable man mandible into a pile of gargantuan ash. It happened once and it happens today. As you’d expect.

            There’s nothing tender left to the loins and this statement can’t possibly be true when you really let go of all annihilation primroses and plant both boulder-shaped big toes on the ground. You can’t know, not probably, I’ve seen the Caramel Prophets make more prophets from their selective caramel factories and with little time to spare a spire from exclusion principle. The old woman has a heart of gold or so I’m told and I’m kind of tempted to move it so’s I don’t have to see the boss man get all angry with our slap heads and Wendigo burgers. Ay, that’s right. I’m glad you noticed but not glad to let you go over the finer points. It’s getting to be just like a hand job in as much as the giraffes seem to want in on the action. The wolves have already placed their bets and wager their more prominent canines for a cut. Mothers are next on the agenda and grandmothers after them. It seemed only fair to let the little girls go while the psychiatrists blathered on in the background  of our TV static. It’s not to be trusted so don’t go.

            One of the new times I see you, I’ll be a whole new man with whole new parts and a few necessary and aptly-named holes. As women go out to drink film broth, my brain infection seems to be spreading into biblical passages of hellfire and brimstone despite the fact I’m just reading a book on the WI and their magnificent rag collection. Womanhood slaps down hard on the start up and ingratiates itself with typing skill and deputy exhaustion prevention habits. You just take a little breath and I’ll see who I can lie to meaningfully and without a haircut. As I’d expect but what about you? Don’t go on, don’t carry on about the toilet in the downstairs lounge. The faucets are perhaps a little leaky but the animal who put it there   were gathered up by an anecdotal trip out to the south of you.

            Let’s now dispute the finer points and see where that takes the feeling of hands brushing a magic carpet simultaneously. Moo cows are expensive but I think you’re worth it, little paraplegic misnomer! You are sliming up the hallway with your hopeful banter and blank verse of pedantry. Stay away from the lifestyle and you'll make your own lifestyle, forge it, button it. It's silken lace that strokes the underside of your barefaced chin. She was a poor dear and you know now how to accept it with exempting yourself from any further developments in parliament. It's a masterstroke and I love you for it, exactly as you stand right now, I love your promises. The kicker is that you'll fail and falter and then blame me but I'll just go ahead and restart the universe and switch disk drives to make you huggable again.

            The Little Old Romanian Woman wants to show you her collection of Great British baking techniques. She is quite proud of her recipe books and will force them down your throat in lieu of the actual dough so you better get gussied up and ready for the tantalising. When she talks, she's a regular greenhouse gas going up and with your petty balloon triumphs. The Little Old Romanian Woman has an ideal outcome in mind, she always has an ideal tucked away to truncate for a raspy-hearted afternoon out on the field. Let's have a picnic and open up objectivity clauses. The school work is implied.

            It's taken some years to arrive at it but now we, both you and I, need to realise that the dots in a cartoon dogs eyes are our very souls folded down into two dimensions. The blackness is not there to signify or indicate or even infer in some cases, it's there as a placeholder for all the races we could run together. It's news and news is good provided that you set off with enough chlorophyll to stupefy the light.

            

22/10/2013 - A MISTAKE MAKER

A mistake maker, a deregulator, a growth spurt, a planned deception, a hatful of old men, a suppository, a repository, a depository, a plantation, a hyper child, a deceleration, a cataclysm, a big word, an overexposure, a commercial, a case of being, a type of being, a dictation of being, a fatuous remark, a blindside, a DVD case, a front kiss, a back track, a box of three dimensions, a laughter box, a charter, a claim to claim, a mastery over filth, a turbulent past, a more, a blue sky, a cloud, a cartoon of that cloud, a bad caption, a bloodied hand, a keyboard facing Mecca, a liver spot, a trapping of some sort, a protective spell, a coat of chocolate, a mixture of noxious fumes, a mixture of tinctures, a mixture of lab tech, a tried and tested method, a spaceship, a portrait, a negation, a balm, a ghoul, a yellow brick building, a theatre of the absurd, a good man, a Waldorf salad, a movie, a film, a televised documentary, a piece of found footage, a spool, a can, a starry-eyed debutant, a fried chip, a black hole, an android head, a symbol, a metallic metaphor, a bitter taste in the mouth, a dry mouth feel, a passage, a certain something, a boring conclusion, a placid direction, a job for hyperbole, a limb, a wildcard, a fake moustache, a book series that forms a bell curve, a bell curve that becomes itself, a minute, a metre, a lifetime, a monster hunter, a discarded tissue, a blind man, a bluff, a wonder, a wish, a waltz, a pale moon, a lazy leisure.

An object, an objectification, an entirely different reason, an idea, an opening, an ironic aspect of an oval child minder, an overripe banana, an ultimatum, an erection, an election, an inspection, an alteration of public moral, an aspiration, an opine, an argument, an argument over open opine, an Autism accusation, an undeniable quandary, an underpass, an overt withdrawn foregone conclusion, an angel.

These sprays are tangling the myopic heart, these sprays are made from the pirate flesh and the glass-handed monk of their mug system. These sprays are due to rend existence from its womb, these sprays are loosing the cardiovascular system on our overbearing heads. These sprays are our mothers, these sprays are our fathers, these sprays are the other relatives that live in Australia. These sprays are mists, these mists are sprays. These oncoming symptoms are as follows: MILF disorder, sandwich making, impinged desertion, soluble market value, framing of framer frames, repetition of curious sounds, clanging of the very same curious sands, draining random hot tubs, hypochondria, colonic irrigation, mystery-solving, misery-solving, same old, same old, retrieval of former delusions, disaffection with society’s need to create and instil normative behaviour in small children and their stuffed teddy bear collection, Capgras syndrome, addiction to sports, addiction to sporting behaviour, dirty pool behaviour, letting go, clicking, incessant clicking, withdrawal of PE teacher status, long romantic lists as long as the arm.

21/10/2013 - YOU PUT ME DOWN

            You put me down, you big brute! Please! Your snout is all cold and flared and your belly grumbles with termites and plastic metabolism. It's a sign of insecurity to be nice to the sweet monkey, to make a friend out of the dirty thing. If you speak softly you get hit by his sunny side chauvinism and turn into a lonely object of nature like me. There's no help for this fried-up baby, flailing its arms in vintage sauce. At least the burden registers on the radar report. Maybe we can lose the man with excessive facial hair for he is the apex of my very soppy downfall. I read it in my astrology. You dig that dive?

            This is an apostrophe for morons, a slideshow for a ditz with her towering necklace and powdered inner child. Test the samples with grainy oil and mule piss, a concoction unto itself. Could you maybe bring the gulf into this? This is what I propose: we issue an air drop on the bearded fellow then remove his purple vest and condone it for safe keeping and then we somehow lose half the party by angering the bus goodies before they can take our girls from us. Our grid iron darlings will be rolling along like hefty logs at this time, toothy too.

            It looks like a child with a curtain hair style, vaguely cagey and ill-timed thanks to the roars of Republicans. You want spirited debate and I want spiritual debate while hanging low enough to retract your money bags from their liable placements. Go ahead and give me a certain kind of sadness while I'm still in this pet shop hat. You really think that's going to ring a bell, let alone report back immediately? Do you see the scimitars that the local children left behind? They've been proposing contact to sweater vessels, all six of each crew. Don't worry about it too much, Captain, you'll get your hope bones soon enough. Now kiss me, you mad fool! Not so slender now. Can't you see, can't you see? Please, please, please get away from me. My chef instincts want to make love with the yellow spirit while it takes me away from the beaded brassiere.

            I've grown a lampshade on my rattling foreskin, its saving itself for marriage on one Jack-shaped rainy day. It's one of the most magnificent snake shakes I've ever seen for now. My wisdom teeth are killing it, kicking it, pulling it off in the one true gay way. They're gonna jump alongside the magic cat and its apish features. West by northwest without any velocity. Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Uhuh! It's hot now all set for the peels of naked chest destruction.

            I met a Ukrainian student once, bearing a half-lit lantern filled with hair lice. He didn't seem to care for the sketches involving his former party trick involving pastry and midget boxers. They took the shine right off the herring, he tells other people.

20/10/2013 - HE'S A TACTICIAN

            He's a tactician, a creepy advocate of gay rights in the Hebrides. She was a designer of eyewear, a walking, fucking courtesy on a video for the rewind. They met at a bus station, underneath all the atrophy and delinquency. He brings his pocket book of realisation, she fished out a golden door from the wind beneath her bingo wings. There was no kidding in all the modern kidding, there was a faux version that gets plastered all over the frayed Causeway of Gauze. To meet at a well spring of believable breast physics is the dream for a couple that are completely unlike this, that actually have a shadow of a doubt. He's alive now but she dried up and became the pomegranate on top of his psyche.

            To go to Chelsea is the dream, to alarm the Ghandi types up there with their own mother tongue and shreds of their other tongue, perhaps some slice of a whistle to go along with both. Something in them cheers the silhouette and stays within the heart of most tacticians, resides beside the candle wax storage unit. Carrying razorblades in the pockets can sometimes help to alleviate the quality of certain poor directions by clasping under the grimy lock for a happening. Saying is speaking there and speaking is unto an elliptical death spectrum. It's just like coming home, some project from great distances, may inches. It's nevertheless a complication, the kind of complication that makes the work of a tailor hellish and yet strangely aquiline. These people say they didn't realise it was abuse at the time but now they realise that the eagle was calling out for them to stop pushing the button and start singing about visitors inside their watches. No robot says I love you these days.

            The Royal Family takes you places instead for you trouble, a short stay here and a lengthy outcry there. They feed you full with staples, chickens, desires, dust covers, massage parlours, Octobers, microwavable dinners, mysteries, malignant tubas and party snack packs. The only thing they leave out of your sight is their phlegm and that's just common courtesy if you tell them beforehand. Nevertheless the bathroom lets out its steam through its pipes and places a pontiff hat of despair underneath their most important loose tile. It does seem a waste but at least you can always dwell on the past.

            Everything about this headed betrothal is supremely brothel, crass and crunchy with melodramatic derivations of tumultuous sort. The wrangling of the legs and the fingers is what the problem really turns out to be for most guests but, as for me, I'm not too sure I can hold back on the fructose portions. As you know I don't particularly like to involve myself in broad discussions on healthy snacking but this has a red button light all about it, flashing and depressing at different intervals. I'm obliged to speak and let the speech sprout fervour. I am obliged to-  

19/10/2013 - WHARF SURFACE MEMORY

            Wharf surface memory. It needs cleaning. It needs hours of quintessential explanation and deliberation over various international incidents that require guest thinkers just to float up outside of the realms of blah-de-blah balloon contemplation. The time has come to talk of late hours and cinder pots that whir in televised opinion articles whilst drinking the last of the supposedly summer beverage, the one that's an off-colour red to calcium deficiency victims. It grates on the nerves. It holds me in my dinner jacket and tells me all the wonderful things Cinderella managed in the Winter Gardens in spite of her narcoleptic half-sister weighing her down. The don devises such privileges of information and can offer a guided tour around such hotspots of interest although his prices do tend to bruise like cups of tea on a fine diner's palette. It trips the tongue and rolls out the rug that lies frozen underneath, rolled up into an avid discussion over copycat pedantry. The man with buns for a head once was Neil but he's since been transformed into a compressed thing with cultures for eyes and a batty hairdo that derelicts most airships at the mere sight of it in areola codes. The temptation to call in is probably killing him.

            But calling in is not quite the same as calling it in, not quite the same at all, in fact the eye can also be the storm itself only much tighter and swept up by loose bands of a cloak made of its substance. It fixes on the grey matter and fifty other balls of the lingo that don't trip or yearn for something external to the natural born locus. That was the Captain speaking just then, just behind all the other stuff I said, and he wants to prove to you that you are in fact a lizard in a convincing man suit. He can see your zipper but then we can all see your zipper so is it really a zipper? You seem far too clever to have it out and flaunted so blatantly. The rest of your outfit is like horse spurs and lasting tributes tacked onto the face-to-face encounters that are commonly associated to wedded bliss. You have the devil's eyebrow, all lofty and malignant in spite of itself. This very cry of pain could be your buckteeth growing out, a trick commonly taught to students of the amicable craft. Naming who exactly will do you no good but its always nice to chat and learn something the enemy isn't quite so sure of and wouldn't mind working out with a piece of paper and a pen.

            But you left the girl and that's what has set everybody on edge. This is it: dots you popped in a map that you left behind just to prove the rest of the thinking world that you had not caved into materialistic expressionism. Few would agree that you are in fact Cinderella, some ascribe you to Cerberus for thorough keeping.

18/10/2013 - THE THESIS

The thesis is this: OUCH, MY LEG DOESN'T BEND THAT WAY, DARLING SO DON'T GO TELLING YOUR TECHY CHUMS ABOUT THIS FORAY OR, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I'LL STAB YOU WITH THE WET END OF A FLOUNCY SCREWDRIVER AND DON'T YOU KNOW IT! I'M A GOOD ONE FOR AFTEREFFECTS, FOR KETTLE CAKES, FOR DEALING WITH MEN NAMED ERIKSON, FOR ONLINE ACCESS, FOR SURGICAL PRESCRIPTION, FOR PHOTOGRAPHIC ADDRESS, FOR INTEREST, FOR INTERESTING, FOR INTERESTED, FOR GRANTED, FOR PUTTING THINGS IN THE BIN WITH THE OTHER STUFF, FOR THE LIBRARIAN WHO HUNG HIMSELF WITH HIS OWN BRAND OF PINK RIBBON, FOR THE SEEDED TENNIS PLAYER, FOR HIS FEASIBLE WIFE, FOR HIS TANGIBLE APTITUDE, FOR HIS IQ, FOR HIS RELATIONSHIP TO THE LIBRARIAN THAT WAS NONEXISTENT, FOR THE BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT I JUST PAID HIM IN HIS SLEEP, FOR THE BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT HIS WIFE JUST PAID HIM BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP, FOR THE BACKHANDED COMEUPPANCE THAT WILL SOON ARRIVE TO BOTH HIM AND HIS WIFE BEFORE THEIR DAY HAS EVEN BEGUN TO BLOOM, FOR THE INTERMITTENT BOOM FOR EU EQUALITY, FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, FOR THE FIFTH OF JULY, FOR OCTOBER THAT GETS NO LOVE, FOR MY DARLING ROSITA WHO WAS A CLEANER AND WORE BLACK SHOES, FOR THE DEAD DOG WE KEPT IN THE MIDDLE OF OUR DRIVE, FOR GOODNESS, FOR GOODNESS SAKE, FOR A QUICK SIP OF SAKE BEFORE THE LONG LEGS RUNDOWN. MY FEES COST TEN PERCENT LESS THAN MOST OTHER SUPERMARKETS WITH THEIR MAINSTREAM LEATHERBOUND CONSEQUENCES AND TANGERINES. I'M A KEEPER.

The abstract was at: THE QUAKER MEETING HOUSE WHERE WE USED TO MEDDLE WITH IRONIC SUPERVILLAINS AND THEIR BACKYARD STATISTICS AND THEIR MEDICATED STATIONARY OR, AS WE CALLED IT, HIBISCUS EXTRACT. WE REACTED TO THEIR CANNON FIRE AND TOLD IT TO BANG OVER AND OUT OF THE INCREMENTAL THOUGHT PROCESS OF YEARLY KEYBOARDS. IT WAS A FIREBRAND AND WE WERE SO HAPPY NOT TO SEE IT LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE DID WITH THEIR EVENTUAL WARES AND WINKLES. IT WAS A FIREBRAND BUT WE MADE IT INTO A STATUE WITH A PURSE. IT WAS ABOUT THEN THAT WE TRAVELLED DOWN TO SOHO AND MADE SEVERAL PROMISES TO SEVERAL MUTUAL DAYTIME TV DESPERADOS. WELCOME TO THE BAT. WELCOME TO THE SPECTACLE. SHOW WINNING IN CLEAR ENGLISH. WE DESCEND INTO BALLEY AND MAKE CLONES OF OUR SWEET MOVES AND THE MOVERS THAT ENVY THEM IN THEIR OWN HOUSES WITH THE SAFETY ALWAYS ON. I'M GOING TO MISS YOU, JUST AS YOU MISSED HIM WHEN HE LEFT BUT YOU NEVER HAD THE GUTS TO TELL ME, YOU NEVER REGURGITATED THE LIVER IN OCTOBER AND THAT LEFT BOTH MYSELF AND THE MONTH FEELING QUITE LONESOME AND BURNING WITH PRIM ASPIRATIONS. WE HAD A GLORY, YOU AND I, WE WERE LIKE A SUPERHERO AND A SUPERVILLAIN, INTERCHANGEABLE AND WORTHY OF THE DEEDS WE FACED. WE FORGED OUR WAY THROUGH SQUIGGLY LINES AND BECAME SNUBNOSED. WE NEVER TALKED AGAIN AFTER THAT, WHICH WAS A SHAME.

The conclusion might be: YOUR VITAL SIGNS IRK MY TEARS.

17/10/2013 - CANALS DON'T JUMP

Canals can’t jump. Might can’t mow. Life cannot fetch. Death cannot fork. Try the negativity march with a hat, a hop and a bitch of a starch. That’s what almost killed me in the first place. At least we have sufficient surplus in the vertebrae of narcissistic rage. As we ram it home, we have to realise that the shovel and the lawn dart are integral parts of this island and that the problem lies just somewhere west of the sin.  We are fine for once but there are still some eighteen dozen bureaucrats that live across the neighbourhood. There are still some things that the bridesmaids want us to learn.

Hands come off. Jokes go off. Niceties go pink. Larceny goes out. Wastrels come good. They tell the outsource to agree on something a little less palatable than flies on hooker shit. The nose gets bent out of shape to be like the boxcar and loses ten percent of its official status to miss the network. Reaching out for the grabbing hand might jump the gun and find the gas and food shop. Go ahead and watch daddy’s helipad for updates in fast food shipment. They shake the blubber off the moss and slurp up the residual energy to click out and come along quietly. How’s it hanging? That is the earshot. That is the oxygen on the golf course. Could be pale. Could be disagreeable.

We’re wearisome. We’re underhanded. We’re a hero on the corner who doesn’t quite know where to place his biases. We’re trudging through polite discourse. We’re hard as nails. We’re left to become a baby in the weeping stage of nasal development. We’re wearisome and a bad person repeated. Could we sugar over the episodic features of life and let the world not have these squeaky problems? Could we all be a bent copper in a blue corduroy crèche? Could we stop? Could we stop being so plaintiff for just a minute or a moment of that same minute? Probably not while the letter ‘I’ is around.

As for the beast in grand design, nobody seems to check or affirm the bars. Maybe it’s because we’re all so lame at grandstanding or maybe it’s because there is in fact no shelter from a twinkle in the eye. The big burly Irishmen of the world are exacting their revenge on wildcard games of tag and the foul accusation of the lurgy reaching out from the monotony. It leaves the rest of the bedding cold to the hoity-toity reclamation. As for the wise man he seems to be struck down with a flavour, the kind of flavour that can only be found deep within strobe light and vacuum cleaner bags. We must beware whilst he can stand, we must do our absolute best to knock him over at every available opportunity. Some suckers are nameless but not him. And as for the closet or the wardrobe, we’re going off it now. We’re glad to not smell the wood.

16/10/2013 - MAKE IT FAST, PLAYER

            "Make it fast, player. Make yourself into a younger player, wind yourself up into a big floating ball of yarn then bowl yourself across the green until everything stops echoing. The charlatans will clock off for the night at eight, maybe nine and then you can always rustle up a runt pie of some sort, let out a clipped yahoo into the boatswain's ear drum. That would be fantastic to watch and then crap out with my left hand tangling with gorgonzola dreadlocks. That would make something short of peace into something more than itself and the river combined into one fluid compositor. Don the fructose hat whilst observing this like you would if it were a poetry recital or a dance in the refectory.

            For all I care, I might as well be a rancid skin graft going south of the cleft alongside the clientele, shoulder to shoulder and summarily silent. As for the King of England, he could lose his lunch over patriotism if we let him forget what that spiky thing on his head and now on his nipple means and why it shouldn't make him so hairy and leery. His wife will smite him by sundown and I have reliably been informed that we can all go down to the bay and watch it in slow motion with cakes and other goodies. These snacks might be so gooey our hands are joined over bottles of fizzy drink and vacuum-packed lima bean sauce. Coughing is all that matters and you really shouldn't do it as the curtain starts to roll.

            Now, you see, he's starting to disappear which is to say he's going off to bed for an early night only really rising to visit the little boy's room so he can shit all over the stuffed bears collection and the badge maker. He's a tractor in his orientation, fieldwork working itself out fingers first and purse strings last. So we're clear I clarify that I am not in fact beautiful and stress that the best course of action when dealing with my moments of bloated disgust are not in fact a reliable scan for approval. To accuse me of such things is just frothy. That being said, I do tend to steer clear of the ugly bag ladies that live down your way - SHEESH. Allow me to opine for just a moment. Yes, you need to leave so I can reach the full extent..."

           

            'So that's the recess over. Your syntactical ticking is closing a fist in my direction and now he, your friend, is wanting to tie up the clothes line with his malefic moodiness. Clouds go zooming and the pasted storyboard of life blots itself into intense shapes and reliable gyrations of the outline. Tack this on for safe keeping, your balding is marshalling a newfound arena for kissing and crushing out any opportunity to exist in a factory full of dodgy lights. It's bedtime now and the tail is just gorgeous if you take time to consider it as intended.' 

15/10/2013 - WHEELIE TROPES

Wheelie tropes made the black cargo gold with the flick of a flicker of a sleight of hand in a lonely pocket. It glimmered past the lazy bean fields and turned its attentions onto womankind with a kink in both its heart and belly. These knots made for sick, heavy breath and flaming boozers in twilight damask. Residual rights activists came out in full force, they came out with extra full force in case the fires were bonny and blithe. It's a kid's round full of malware, born of triumphant miles and trumpet calls in star prize preening. To pass the baby is to slide a buck into the contextual hand of chartered accountancy. It jet, jet, jettisons the warm lumps of the marked news, carefully avoiding the bits made of macarooni and pure typhoid.

            It cries Fahrenheit, Celsius but neither at the same time, not on the dales. To do so would go unrequited like the American and the Scotsman who tried to emulate the Irish brother they so frequently bashed for his good for nothing stereotypes. They never realised he threw himself into a pregnant woman's womb in order to resurrect an order from the colonel, the one he never got round to hearing properly and throughout. He was making tracks towards the dictionary definition, sowing seeds and sprouts of felony all around his tabernacle feet as he went along. The jigs started to play but then the party was over and the noose was starting the painful process of turning into a comely Sheila. They say it can only commemorate his sadness but that would require sorting out the fluffy bits first, the nicks and the punch.

 

 

 

 

 

            Swathe said - we're the only ones you had between the wall and the skirting board. Mastery replied - you did quite well, quite well with your jobless Deuteronomy scripture. Swathe said to him - so you're on his side now? I'll bet you were on his slight side all along, weren't you? Mastery snapped - oh shut up while I get the fire started. Swathe muttered - I was only saying. Mastery said - don't speak, it's far too easily done for the likes of you. Swathe sat in silence and fondled his navel like an hour glass or an upturned swan. Mastery designed a brand of liqueur that would make anyone late for their bad appointments guaranteed. No satisfaction though.

            The woman in the corner has trouble sleeping. She feels observed and often gluts herself on the realisation that she must leave for some undisclosed farm somewhere to mark up carrots for the sake of courage whilst the infection and its layer cake structure spread out across the badlands. This case is a yes without tidy relevance, an affirmative that takes so long you might not even realise that the answer is coming with the intention of pounding you into bone idle sausage meat paste. The rectory provides solace to the bleak and underlay but opens its back doors to everyone.

14/10/2013 - AN ABRASIVE INDUSTRY

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13/10/2013 - THE SIDESHOW WAS NOT IMPERFECT

The sideshow was not imperfect nor was it episodic. It was merely an outsider opinion on a world filled with chitin and oxygen, a reaction to all the bad juju that lives and works its trade amongst our limbs and embolisms. The tribes that rise from its catacombs stand surprisingly tall at least thirty four feet, grinding their teeth against ocular reefs. Occasionally their molars catch against abandoned housing estates and make an unforgivably irate sound in lieu of a happy hunter pay check. These guns are there to take them down, one after their stinking other, cousin after lonely cousin. Their loneliness is what we’re counting on. We have the stakes and what it takes to be normal so these chumps don’t have to, that makes them vulnerable to our pockets and the twitching going on inside them. This is how we instigate.

We dress up as radical ladies of video game descent and charge them thrifty dollars to show them what lies beneath our underclothes which will, of course, be no more than a handful of measly peanuts and dandruff. Then we launch our head traumas and watch them cripple themselves with aneurisms and marriage annulments. It’ll go down delicately and some might even chip in their front teeth for a new laptop bag, if you know what I mean which of course you don’t because I don’t pay you to know what the hell it is that I mean. You’re already proving yourself to be better than half of those Italian recruits who lost their lives in the battle of metres and grey skin cells. Good riddance to burly rosebud rogues. I don’t make them but I sure as hell smoke them out good. Just call me the Super Rat Killer with foppish tendencies and a measured inclination. I have an incinerator if you think that’ll help garner attention. I could display it, just say.

As for the bulges of ageing eyes on a lovely-shaped woman and her dreamy livelihood, there isn’t much I can do but offer her my condolences. It just means that the giants have gotten to her existentialism and stripped it away like skin off a chicken drumstick, cannon to the heart-wrenching speech they always like to promise but never deliver on. I might have been witness to it at one time but no way am I letting it happen on my watch again. My hands are too red to even pick up the phone, a condition which happens when I’m not under pressure in fact. It’s a tremulous auteur who comes forward and becomes forward in his beliefs, he needs the spine of an idiot iron girder and the swappable soul of an entire beachside population. You’re coming with me, Sonny Jim, because I’m not fighting him while this steaming. So much for work for the body against the clock. Tiffs instigate the clock which basically means activate but I like to sound technical before I try to wipe you out of the equation completely.

12/10/2013 - ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL

All, all, all, all, all, all, all white men are at once both yaks and themselves. They shelter in hydraulic stations and remark about all, all, all the gay porn they managed to duck and dodge (except the homosexual ones who wear brown fedoras to forget about such travesties) and all, all, all, all, all the fireworks they massaged and lead out through the Soviet Paramour’s renal valves. The surf is indeed riding high to the yield and won’t filter down the hilt until the puppeteer perfectionist has slaughtered his own string maker with fatherly jibes and jabs. It’s do or die, it’s definitely definitive as far as sightseeing goes.

As some sow the wind with tampered genuflections, the rest of us casted men will add flavour to our stock characters and shuffle out the women before they make a nuisance of themselves. This could easily be the case for some of them; we’ve spent so long listening to their intelligence that we can spot the cruelty from eighty crappers away. Measurement needn’t come into it anymore, we’re fine judges ourselves with our wigs on and our favouritism tied together at one end. It’s not a secret you know nor would it ghost the world with foxy bartering.

I could be a broken man, of course, I could be a broken man if that was all, all, all, all I actually wanted to do with my time which it isn’t. I much prefer to be the Lantern’s Idiot, a gentleman who spends his time chattering away to tall dry grass stalks and not doing much at all about valediction. It’s electric discovery that drives up the tally marks, tickling the blonde representative with unique impropriety. As well you should, as the saying goes in a paraphrased sort of fashionable way. Yes.

It’s going well. At least it’s going comparatively well for some sepulchre and its son of a bitchy gun. As the refractory said to the refectory, HOES AND BOXES GO ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, NOT ONE INSIDE THE OTHER. DIPSHIT. SURELY THAT WAS PLAINLY APPARENT. I’m not a good man for such a simmering job, not such a white man to stand up for a few keys and a blank screen running whirring sounds in its upper portions and slide bits. Letting go of the basin will be just as the product placement tester expected with all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all downsizing have a route inside the business that actually worked and ran deep enough to climb through. There are supposedly forty five desks to slacken and dot with jetpack memorabilia so we’ll probably never get round to our planned daytrip to the New York Congress Library. Perhaps if we breath very usuriously we might be accepted into the hall of political insults and occasional ineffective scandal. All these things carry their own bite, each one less malicious than the last. We rank them in descending order like so and so and so...

11/10/2013 - A BALD JEWISH MAN

A bald Jewish man with a tidy zip comes along every Thursday to blow on the brain and tickle the blood that seeps out of it onto the Parliament gates. It makes a pressure cooker sound, a noise which more often than not interferes with his ability to differentiate greyscale from white. The nasal faculties can and do often distort the carnival data, like it mattered or something. Gold drops from the bald Jewish man to tell his feet and sensible shoes that the shoreline isn’t quite as surrendered as it should be, that it’s wrought and fraught with metal detectors that never seem to lose their shape no matter how much they get called up by police for scientific matters. Someone did something to a shell but that’s all he knew beforehand.

 

Good little spirals can electrocute his ability to be unable with a cause; it can turn him right on his back and throw off his circuit board with nimble treads of the flintlock pistol. The bald Jewish man can taste the stickiness of this line of thinking all the way from over his own hat and there is absolutely nothing his fingertips can do to threaten the situation into tidying itself up. They’ll tell him to come back and come away with hotel listings and sore t-shirts covered with leopard print vomit. Right then they’ll tell him to examine the thankful computer with bulging phosphorescent eyes and foyer voyeurism. Can the language and you’ll reduce the powder into a distinct warp in the lens of some sucker’s second eye, the one that covers his original one without the aid of conversation. There might be new evidence circa major contribution that would re-establish a golden rectangle with storybook potential. That’s the goal of naturalism as found in milky fingerprints and dissolving focus.

 

It would be built from spirals, infused with the thought process of the bald Jewish man and his personal note. He would usually step out onto a limb to let it happen with home market gusto, he would find himself a Hebrew character to muse over and trap with asterisk pinholes. Why would hyphenation affect a man with a blanket tie such as him? The paranoia is tremendous, tremulous and fairly nice as an aphrodisiac. It deserves a mask of treatment, a grimace of light and perhaps a quick and spurious version of the happy birthday song. The lines and dots and curls are courteous enough to supplant themselves in gross return via a pulsing beep. Rubbing the knees might accelerate the process but then what would the wires be for in the big, blue ending? It’s a drawn-out selfish moan in the unshaven face of scientific discovery. Follow the arrows.

 

There is so much to binary, the bald Jewish man surmised, there is so much to eat and repeat and bump uglies about it. It drives me into usurious technology but that’s not so bad. I’ll live as the wailing goes on and scrapes the fuck.

10/10/2013 - RETICENT BOWELS

Reticent bowels, they are. Plastered down ironing boards with the trimming nibbled off with red, blamed teeth. Take a little walk down to Dingo Corner and splay your lovechild with football fowls and borderline crossfire. He/she's never coming back unless its along sweaty stacks and disappearing thorns. They make craters.

                Delve a little deeper and you know what you might not know you'll find if you find it without your wet little goggles on. Such dismay on the edged quaff that tips and folds grouses into untidy stammers of the yokel nomenclature. It's sacred and you know it to have many tiny timeless portions of goodly thatching. It pounds as hard as calculators on the soft side of wilting milk bottles. It barks without inhibition and occasionally without a decent pair of shoes to behold. Some might tell you not to seek out the beaker but you'll do it because your father was a man of industry and his brothers and other siblings were down for the count from an early age, round about the time they were forgotten about entirely and caked in hazy dust. Everyday features become more and more apparent, just like the breaching hilt against the undertow of your harvester belt. See how it matches your eyelids.

                  We see that your name is an picture again. Actually two pictures as I have just rightly been informed. Very good. We are pencilling it in as your experience of an otherworldly veto. You managed it all by yourself, without any empty pockets to swim inside. You took the answer right out of that horse's bushy tail and expressed it all across your hairless chest. You weren't a woman the last time I checked but then my direct conversational style does tend to ignore the intricacies of the other party, especially when they aren't as heavy as me. What have we here? Firstborn physics all over again.

The microwave clock, the microwave clock. It's the same as the elk's inner thigh seam but they probably didn't account for that. The colour is a baffling hue of green, the yarn of the Technicolor Empire, the toast and the talk afterwards, the polite one that is. Laying the groundwork is the same as pencilling in stuff about persons other persons don't like, it's the twisting of the natural writhing patterns. Washing carefully is a grand practice under the burning eye of the green microwave clock and all its constituents. It's derivative, the entire experience is entirely derivative but who really cares to find that out anyway? Most people have that encouraging NOW feeling which wraps around their legs and talks with a gay man's sneeze.  It promises a bacterial biscuit relationship, the one that Benedictines have without patient remorse. Hearing the saxophones above the trumpets is a must on this side of the world.

                I'm grabbing my hat, my coat, my Augustine displeasure with the rim around the top. I'm reaching for a door that is selective in its hearing. I'm you now.

09/10/2013 - WAVELENGTHS

Wavelengths – abort, abort, abort. This is where you get off with all your namby pamby rhetoric, this is where we depart your baggage and shuffle your shoes off the platform and into some steamy cafe. Direction implicated. The nouns are following you around like a dude in drainpipe trousers, they’re hanging on your every quiff. Save yourself for marriage, chum, save yourself for the marriage of elastic knot tying. It could reach out to your inhibited Liverpudlian accent, very probably. Very possibly. But that’s chatter. Return to mainframe, launch detonation sequence. Shift frames. Focus. Focus. Double-time. Zoom into rumba.

His mother had a toe rag at the ready for just such friends as you, she kept it in her happy satchel and removed it only when the habit took her and refused to shake her. She’s a good little carrot nibbler, a retrospective pneumonic going down a slipstream at hyperactive enunciation. It’s a hatchet. That’s a hatchet. Someone jabbed it into the wood and now no sucker can get it out without trapping their lips on the handle. The teeth rattle against the wood and make an awful jarring sound. It verges on Autistic Spectrums that exhibit themselves out of the known parameters of time but not space, not necessarily. They only take nihilistic attitudes, do the cosmonauts, it allows them to savour their burnt reputation. These suckers like burnt toast on gnarly beans.

Hope breach. Hope breach. Wavelengths flat lining. No-one’s around to see it, no one with half a qualification anyway. Your here though and your name might as well be on a name card. Wait, there’s isn’t any room so how about we rechristen you? How about Erasmus? That’s fine upstanding name to come from a vineyard that some quiet little town spewed up on its outskirts. It’s a glum card collector’s name, worth the baptism if you say so. Well, you said so, so.

You see that. I’m not asking, you know that you see that. It’s a big wormy baggage handler being kicked off his own train. That’ll teach him to say WHOAMITOGORUNNINGWITHTHEBIGDOGBOYSOFWESTERNPROPORTIONANDEASTERNPREPOSITIONWHILEMYWIFEGOESOUTHUNTINGFORGROUSE whilst on a moving vehicle. Good on you for hollering him. School in the morn. Dedicate the foghorns. The amount of stuff I’ve been lugging around for you these past eighty years, it would make your mother’s calculator bleed. She’s coming round to tea, correct? Present and correct, as always. I see.

You have a man’s briefcase, not this man over here but a man’s secret briefcase. There’ll be goodies inside but don’t look because you’ll invalidate them with your sightline. Products wither with exposure to clean, plaintive air. It will make you see the true folly of your hairdressing ways, I’m sure. I’ve talked to your mother, well, been talking to your mother and she thinks you need to organise a trade of gifts with that little Irish girl from down the way. I’ve heard she’s lost the vast majority of her snub-nosed curls now, she’s been away for a while. 80% uploaded. Yessiree.

08/10/2013 - I AM THE PRICE OF TOMFOOLERY

            I am the price of tomfoolery in the naked lamplight! Behold this crest! I kneaded it, proved it with sour dough! I suppose that makes a racist to thesaurus users but then they can't hold words in their head so who am I to play the pup for them? I grind my teeth, don't you know? I ground them down to a thin, wavering paste of humanist emotion. It's good to see my chomp gone, it was eyeballing me for too long and without reserve. There's  a protozoa of sardine cynicism over there, it kind of looks a bit like a sperm with its ears pricked up and its libido inhibited. I think I might've seen it locked away in one of these cupboards, the ones to your left if you look just behind you. I'm sure I wasn't the one to put it in there so it must've been one of my essays.
            You could find it cool again, in its shiny bikini and its terrible singing voice. You could wrap it up with a horror novel and it would still remain a dangerous instrument of acute torture. This is a box and it goes on for yards and yards without once looking or even seeming heavy. The beady-eyed guvnor has switched from Petrified English to Non-consummate Religious Babble. I think there was something on the telly about the rapture but I prefer to call it Judgement Day Has Its Upsides Too. Like upside your head, you cardiac ear blamer. There are so many buttons and I have to be the one who picks yours, how lucky am I, eh? You made a fine point but I'm not so passive aggressive as your wet nurse would like you to think. I'm a gentle poet who sleeps whenever his rage monster comes out and gobbles up all the white space on a page. Yum, scrummy.
            This was a very nice bar once, you know. All kinds of eye-patched individuals came in to share a tanker with sexy ladies in wheelchairs and talk a scrummy storm into folding into a simple and unassuming bed for the night. The protozoa has its brothers in that bar, or at least it did before they pulped the call sign and reduced the number of patrons. Now it's just one of those places you look inside and think what a monumental shithole. It's like a bomb's gone off in there and by gone off I mean is currently stinking the place out because it should've already blown by now but hasn't. What the fudge will happen to the flipping ploppers when my curtain call comes? The bar will close and all the hearty features will slip into my pocket and come streaming back out again with every unique breath that I choose to take. It's like I twist around and the loaded language does something to the back of my head to make it warm and sticky. Never trust the bastard with a hand cannon.

07/10/2013 - SCHAUDENFREUDE IS BETTER WITH POPCORN

Schaudenfreude is better with popcorn. Ripple. Ripple. Smatter. Thank you for coming to my robust party involving the psychic ditz, especially considering you made all furious and beautiful. You walked into my life and now it’s meaningful in a way that makes my paediatrician so happy and spoon fed. Please don’t retard me with finger foods and adolescent idolatry. Go off and buy more stuff while I’m safe in returned jealousy. That’s the grey hairs and spandex speaking, you just don’t understand. God damn the down payments with a loosely-fitted tie. You have one minute to call me sweetie and then I get going with her money. Your secret is safe behind my Ramadan shield casing.

The bowl of ice cream goes off in its slinky black dressing gown to retrieve the bin from the hypodermic needles of perfect biters. It’s mobile, socially mobile and going simultaneously along the ziggurat. And behold, the co-worker! He means something! I can assure you that provided you keep this under your respective years and all the speckled booze that lies beneath and between. My foreclosure is clucking and the stove is all over the dead person’s navel. It was you who did this to the Pogo Motherfucker; it was you with all the steering wheels and lightning reflexive remonstrance. Come on you drowned cable, come along quietly and we’ll see if we can slave your t-shirt over some quality oven mitts.  Is it summer yet? Then call the ripples back.

You see me sitting right here with a mummy and all the partitions, both glass and municipal. You are a pal, you know that. You see me sliding along the hairy vacuum cleaner with ‘didn’t’ and ‘did not’. You can see wading around in groundhog shit when you find my kids draining the mansion and pleading the fifth coriander. You see the suits that line my lineage, creosote the bandages and gasp with flatulent crowd sourcing. They call me detective simply because I’m a fast-legged trainer. We might need you to ask a few questions, good ones and in fortunate ways.

It’s going on all over: the sword, the mage, the lager minstrels, the faulty requisition portrait, the wires, the planes, the time to go, the weight off the reassigned mind. You could always take the deal and give me a fresh start before I pat down my fedora. Good thanks and grabbing. Imported candle wax. Home depositions go well with such knockout desserts and toaster oven delights. Crash and crash in a crass way so I can ask what on earth are you doing here without all the hearing and the togetherness. Insert friendship with your fingertips and see how earthy my salesmanship really is. I have teenage tools and a detective’s intuition, dipped in liquid sugar and rewound to the beginning. This is real. Oh yes, this is as real as it gets and it will make you a happy chap. Your lapels are coming loose but you come back now, you hear.