17/12/2013 - ON AN OTHERWISE BELOVED PSYCHOTIC FASHION

            On an otherwise beloved psychotic fashion, we deserve who deserves to die and who gets killed in the process. No-one is safe whilst the lifetime is listening and trucking down an almond road. It's truly disaffected like a tambourine on an ionic fuse box, preparing to launch with sweet party snacks floating in its wake. The clouds have it, halve it and use it to trash the empty caskets of a thousand hundred salivating sadists who seem to lie in wait at the bottom of every post box. For months she just lied there in bed, your best friend, while the bailiffs opened letters for her and made various choices and decisions so she wouldn't have to raise her weary head off of the downy threadbare pillow. We eventually lost her in a dream about thin lime partitions in mankind's dawning. She wasn't half wrong as it turned out.

            As it turned out the harpy that seems to make the lasagne in most storeroom cupboards has moved onto cracking jokes about men with educational problems and fish lips that flap on and on about doing Quebec with a pool cue. Please don't be pushy whilst there is so much of the musty stone to be recovered. The Irish lass has lost her breath and now has a cinch where her fire daemon used to be. She said it like that, daemon with the silent blending of vowels. We think it made her important, made her feel like importance could simply be shrugged off her clandestine shoulder blades with insulting grace. It could help people but we already rely on her too much for alternatives to fossil fuel and doily production facilities. The bombs give it to you straight like a phonetic chocolate storm, the kind that fills up the iris with ponytail trick questions. Just say yes.

           

            Just say yes to the director and he'll make the snarky remarks pass with the scripted dialogue, which is to say from the distance and without the majority of the used sting. We'll check this time that that is the only control that the director can impose with his wizard hand. Just tone down the reception of the sun dial and you'll see exactly the sort of director we're dealing with. Nevertheless never give one a static sword, the generals will say things truthfully and with heartfelt apology and the directors will still throw them back against cardboard boxes. I played the shit out of ninety or so old men with picketed pocket money and alimony allowance. Half the fucking time, that is, it happens half the fucking time. Let's just spend the links clearly and without any unrequited tension. There is an awful lot to the keys and pleas among the Victorian hat as collected by other Victorian hats that fold all the way out and drop off with the crumpling of a polite insistence. Please don't be so guarded, the gentleman just wants to know what duh means to you. Please don't.