Today travels with the
exceedingly good at being good-natured and this involves climbing aboard a
submarine destined for nightspots unknown to the human mandible. Let us go far
and wide and then protract our original statement whilst watching these amazing
individuals take that final leap to astounding like a wilting flower tucking
under its own bulbous stem in an attempt to stupefy racial impunity as
organised and perpetuated by seeded monkey drones in their Ghandi Tribute acts.
This is an illegal manoeuvre and will see most erstwhile novelists shot down in
a blaze of hammy acting while their favourite TV programmes are being recorded
over by their ex-lovers with their spiteful burnt left hands. The finer details
are not just impressive, they will knock your sporty attitude right on its
trouser leg without even stopping to airbrush the crunchier lines. It hurts to
see the face and notice how little it shapes like you, how little it
understands the lineage of a towering ego like mine or indeed his. And who is
he? He could be a mild-mannered man with a mop and a mop haircut but I’d be
more inclined to stew you in the raciest direction, wouldn’t I? Because I’m a
trickery in hot pants and rocket fuels and oysters are my favourite delicacy.
You can never trust a man with such base desires and I would be entirely
surprised if you did. I would have to make love to you with the sound of wet
gauntlets snapping in the mountain air and I really couldn’t say more because I
really don’t know what that would actually sound like. If anything we’re on the
right track now, you in your flower coat and me in my arsenal of hunting
rifles. It’s assorted this love but its armed and ready for militia action or a
less interesting uprising. Threats come along everyday if you’re me with my
halter top and ticking breath. I saw your sister the other day and she
described me as a lovely boy with just a few hang-ups tipping right out from
underneath my fingernails. I would have struck her dog then and there had it
not been for the Ambassador of Irate Phone Calls who was shadowing me that day
in a measly attempt to win over a fresh recruitment with as minimal transaction
as possible. I demanded money but he shot me a fingered sigh and smiled all the
way back to Brixton. I don’t suppose you know a way forward from here, do you?
You just look at your finger
foods and try not to ask me about my short haircut and if I like it more than
you quite obviously don’t. We fried a tartan warrior recently on an apologia
but he let it go with his final popping breath and now a signed confession is
not even a strict requirement. I have already notified everyone in your phone
book and they will know about how best to complicate the day-to-day existence
in your pregnant wilting.
No comments:
Post a Comment