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.