Renown, a noun, a knightly deed that
holds aloft its might steed and repels the terror of The Terror, slips a roofie
to the weather, calls out in blocks of morbid text, to rap like rapid ninjas
flexed to receive the hand of safety pipes and squirrels crowned by Wesley
Snipes. As maternal fortune disappears, the black soot arises white arrears and clods itself in
caddish brown to go out fourthly to the town of cleaning implements from the
letter 'e' and a worn-out picture of Billy Connolly, that claims to be papa
from the colour of its curls and the drunken nature of its lofty twirls. But
who would resurrect this meaning of the past? Who would wear the grey badges
all along the arse? What kind of individual saves the body just to go out for
milk, put out and be shoddy? This is the stage all the rookies go through with
their heads twice as swollen, their necks thrice as blue. Duck and dive, dick
and dove, renown is not a pretty thing to love. But I do.
The
wedding went ahead as public safety announcements usually go with the odd
prophecy here and there coming ahead of itself, rustling up a consequence
whilst the others are busy staring at the shine on their shoes and perhaps
their lapel for its lint. So many sallow faces were worn by the bride that day
that we couldn't quite get used to it without seeing her waspish thighs rotate
at a few thousand miles an hour. The father of the bride was a toadstool for
the day, which is a nice way of saying that he didn't give a rat's arse who was
what and when the drinks would be served. As the afternoon went along with its
murky hands working up in the clouds, glasses started to clink and wine was
spilt as regularly as the sacrificial blood was. The flower girl screamed on
her way down to the furnace but that's the real cost of a pretty yellow dress
in this bulge in the catacombs. We didn't seal her doom though, bless her; she
ended up just sitting on a few coals, flesh seared and party hat aflame. We
managed to salvage the bride's veil from her before we shut the door. These
little chicks gets so snappy-fingered at weddings where the woman of the moment
is more of a contestant than a bride. The groom was hardly fabulous but we
wrapped his tongue up in a deft construction. Can't wait to watch the First
Night of the Honeymoon on the overseas channels. Let's see what we really
taught him.
As
for the tidying away of the event, no-one really stuck around besides the DJ.
He's still spinning discs because his contract is both existent and nonexistent
depending on your interpretation of the playlist. His fingers are practically
nubs of their former selves now but he's got the moves. Yes sir, that DJ can
spin a lie.
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