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.