11/12/2013 - I'LL GET BACK ONTO THAT SHORTLY

            I'll get back onto that shortly, we'll get back onto that shortly, that shortly, that sort of thing shortly, that explosive lycanthropic dust particle that lies between the bed sheets that both our humble mattresses share. I'll get the lover's tiff from off of the newspaper shelf and strap it down with gorgonzola cheese until all the grease gluts my pernicious fingers with their artistic nails that curl in witching blue tails. The gunnery is a modern convenience so I'll leave it in the bathroom with the threesome and the foursome and the fearsome laziness of sandwich sex. You have brown hair, I have red hair, we will make biscuits off the top of our heads.

            They look at us and say 'Oh dear'. We look at them and say 'Tea time'. We fade away before they can even think of a comeback, we become a backdrop blind spot that spells out trouble for starving literary pirates. The blood of the omens they plunder makes me an internet celebrity, a sliding critic with medicated primordial urges that link time and you with a single burst of energetic running. Outside there is lovely weather but I'll stay down here to finish the sanding of the surfboard we'll never cherish. You go all metrical and sample fifty liquorice tapes that challenge the moral fibre of most credible baguette nibblers. Watch out for the hicks with wings, they're trying to make off with your britches and pretend that nothing really matters as the aforementioned rock band said they could see. You don't remember the rock band because that comes from a completely different timeline, that was before the March Hare rewrote history with a hangman's habit. Don't ask, please: it's a thorny memory that I still haven't claimed on yet.

            Oh, ho. Ho. Automatic soap and your homemade soup are nothing alike and you know it. I don't care how many times you try to raise my hair on these issues, I'm sorry, I just don't see how the Humber Bridge could be God's skittles welded together. Aren't we His play-things? I can just see the wrappers, come to think of it, I can just seek the corner where there's a little picture of a stick man flinging some crumpled rubbish into a hand basket like it was pearls before swine. This image is my favourite just as the entire scene stops itself and charges the occupants a hundred bucks just to stay alive. Lovers gyre but not we.

            For the rest of our lifetime, our consensually handcuffed lifetimes, I want to forgive you every day. I want to let loose a Manticore on your gold barrel path with its claws facing front this time. I have already lined up a selection of out of work, out of shape 80's film actors to hold boom mikes around the implied cesspool. This is to please you and to keep you away from my drawer full of useful pictures. You have your folders and I have mine.