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-
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