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.