29/06/2014 - DID I HEAR YOU RIGHTLY: THIS IS THE END?

Did I hear you rightly: this is the end? A break perhaps, injun. I know I can trust your hearsay to carry me with a real work over of gin. I’m telling you: this is how elaborate gets packed up and turned into boys in their own right. The hunt is on for something better, something more interesting to do with these hands and fingers and groggy verb-noun dancing. Stupid as marvels, I will go to the option menu of my spirit, my Yahweh and open in most cowboy contracts. Just cough it up: just cough up your colon and rot the stones through the fire found in the immortal belly of guitars. You have killed all the cures in my chest with your name and credit card numbers but we can never understand the poets of white men, never truly. We’re a restful nation of two, dear reader, and now it’s your turn to take the shift.

Some are born to stain glass with the sound of big hitter breasting while others draw pistols and fuck: I don’t know where the rest of the world stands but you’re a good damn question in your own right, in the hallway of horse-faced greenery. Smell my hat so that I might rekindle the sense that I know is common within my turmoil growl, within the words that I choose to knock into order that defies even irreconcilable unconventionality. I covet more than I will earn, ever and again as the horses descend a woodpile hill in greyscale pottery classes. I’m stringing the portions of synapses together to make a fancy bunting for the eagle stench.

Why don’t we, Fiona? Why don’t we go, Erasmus? Why don’t we go out, Mara? Why don’t we go west, Neil? Why don’t we find Mr Thank down the Ritz, arranging saddles for camels and their Lancashire writer riders in an attempt to silly billy and regain the virgin nature of aboriginal luck.

 

Oval is just	you know what i heard about eating habits	THIS IS SOMEONE YOUR AGE	Who/How	Do you have tobacco or beans or hurt?
Themes are womanly, manly and of the egg farm	I’m about to say nobody can live the life of a solo bear	I SAW GOOD ENOUGH	THE BULLS ARE YOUNG AND TRUSTY	as of now the gingham jacket is nehru and nary hairy?

 

• That’s me, wanted loaded and rejected by social custom simply because the colour of my clothes has changed during the extraction of various mutated soldiers from the shipbuilding facility.
• What moans softly, leans the quickest on cobblestones and their spaces thereof. It’s the last film role before death but strangely not the last time you’ll appear on TV.
• Just what is that anyway? Ahatahatahatahahatthewinchesterfeelsfealtytopossumbeansandthedamnpeltskinbedamnedexclusivelywhilethewounded provide meals

 

I say it’s time to eat the water and buckle on out of here. It isn’t good for my health to be anywhere else but upside, topside and hot as coal. Now it’s time to balance ages.

28/06/2014 - WORK YOURSELF UP TO A HIGHER STANDARD

Work yourself up to a higher standard, this may be the end of English Banter but you are our confidence reborn with wings and wingnuts on those wings because of tax evasion results. The time is ripe with running off and tearing down kettle drums from their pitiful stands because the end of the game is up and the classes for independence are low. I have jousted with the dictionary for as long and far as a Neanderthal dare with his trousers on and his best authors by his side to cheer him on and chuck him under the chin for extra support. I am passing out and zones won’t stop me or my giant set of bat talons that pick up sonar for hot women and cool men, one as blooded as the other whether you’re a fan of that sort of television or not. Which your not so cool. Or hot.

Listen for as long as the doorman will let you and heed the verbs and not so much the nouns used: TIME IS TRUANCY AS LONG AS YOU’RE RELATING TO THE BIRDS AND THEIR BEES. The giant stacks of things that won’t load and especially so in the mercurial mercy of a Vicar’s Hospital food chunks. This is the version that good little monkeys remember because the piano solo is just so mind-melding, so reticent and filled with New Zealand rock riffs and the claps they wrap up under and in between. Ebb and flow with the film show but be prepared to hear a young tomboy calling you out onto the street to show you her wares without irony or seduction. She’s popping gum and greasing your skunk-ass wizardry cos she got a n angle to play and with vigour.

So chill out in the borogroves. Others kick back in the space between carpet and earth on market day. I’ve been out the whole way and the mast is still stuck with staying in bed, it’s that depressed, that helpless in its babyish quandary. Everyone in the brawl knows what the lawyers pass for tears while there’s a here filled with children begging on the street for the good of the Crumpet and its remarkable sense of utopia (misguided). What is this? Madness in the most policed crap trip possible? This swarm of humanity knows exactly what you’re peddling and wants to nibble at a piece just so you’ll make a job for yourself cleaning up. Anti-perspirant everywhere, like a girl stood beside the situation. In the absence of a victim, the smelly thief may tell the white writer where to hang his wire coat. The horns open into a saltine just to dazzle you and your precious hair care.

A crime can’t say that cannot is not without horrible irony twisting like a mop head in wicked soup filled with untrustworthy bones and truancy without measure or remorse. I’m not afraid to hang signs all over the door; this is my hind, this my quarters closing because of the filthy manger.

27/06/2014 - THE FISHERMAN, THE END AND HIS CHILDREN

The fisherman, the end and his children all cuddle under the same umbrella for a suppositional clout of terminal conspiracies thrown and flung from the same hat. The others betray your eyes, your human weakness armed with fragmented stones and swaggering strangers that hold you with the truth as drunk in a limp buxom vase. Shouting and grunting shan’t win lady’s tainted favour, she owns her winnings with art deco pride that theme all over the place with a cigarillo poking out of the jet man’s iris. On my listen very carefully, I want you to cap a shout in the shade of the cruise ship and then start wildfires in matron’s underwear drawers, both at work and at home because we know she has them both and we really want to see what she says to all the orange and pale white.

He is the padre, the here and the now through the sniper shot and black axe sprint that becomes return to normal without so much as a fucking go and a funeral to nod off at. It’s no disrespectful if you’re really, genuinely tired and want to hire out a log cabin for a fishing trip next Murdock. Let go of the green, the verdant, the consequential shade of shouting with vibrancy and you’ll discover a new way to belie streaky bacon. The morning brings beautiful tax returns while the night shunts out fingerprints and a second set for the FBI. What the fuck is going on with Armageddon these days? It just keeps going on without concern for convinced pharmaceuticals.

We build the roadhouse, we trace Memphis for Murdock to complicate the cake recipe for princely reining of Jacques and all his swollen toy colonels. We would kill them in last minute of terms and ad domini. Take the burn off with a butter knife and keep it real.

The pipeline

Comes

From

A

Long

Way

Off

And

Spirals

Spirals

Always

And

Away

And

Anyway

President after president has been hot in here in spite of the rolling ways and the dramatic killing of one’s haunches for one’s aficionado. It’s like our secret, short-hand invention and balaclavas with fingers in the hole and headshots of a zit gut. It please me to know that the trigger has yet to be pulleyed by strong beefeater motel dwellers. Get this moving before our papers try to take me down on account of my address. She’ll never be in hoss hose situation again.

Take vignette to the torch, add depth of colour and a snippet of sucking sickness. Don't be shy or sadistic or of an age that is above the Freudian, be basic and at the corners, decoded. Make the sides a lot of people in a fiery square with stately secrets and pattern lines that get really dark in the contrast of a pit stain. The real thing is not to be contained, it it it is to be a panel of light on a Notch Age, set against it it it.

26/06/2014 - IT FELT LIKE THERE WAS A BREATH

It felt like there was a breath of a lump up in my congestion like a sore throat on a windy day. But its fine, its super fine because yeah. It hurts so bad to eat food or even drink water because THOSE MISTAKEN MUSKETEERS try out so many medications just to vilify the helpless but nothing worked. Until they finally numbed me with a night train, I was the first of a very fine day trip that so many snotty children come to resent in later life. Let’s take a break fro being abreast in a ball of acid reflux legitimatelytaken as a high anxiety drug. STRESSING A LITTLE BIT ABOUT the eyes that clear up will lead to workaday onslaught sales. This is work infection, it could take up to a month to go away, are you kidding me, it gets very bad and two days, on-going and off-going it’s really not fine for the spray, the spray.

 

`Awkward toy soldier, how you MAKE DO with howmanydays that wine for six days of sick health and chancery that makes us run down and miserable and then run down by opines that rash along the phew. Little bumps, sun sashes, all over my body at a certain point because white semi-humid people are without proper rations and lack spurious building blocks that make me leave and laugh with really funny cramping of soft spoken style. Spoen by a love hard thick and thin for better and worse that makes art look like the artist with minimal flicking of the wrist and vibrant wonderful instructions from an ABOVE FATHER. You know you did the right thing by getting terrible3 twosomes that realise the dead man ate all his bananas and seeing Christmas thorniness. Firs tit time for the from get go. Have a lot of fun in Portgal Portruu Portgual Portugal. Apparenlty, she needed it. Apparently. '

 

I’m so jazzed by never saying love in 3 and D while battery packs say poo to oops and I have missed ail, ale and I’ve. These are rollercoaster reboot rebuffs that battle with cream giraffes with dragon necks that bite down with Morse beeps and baps. We’re about due for an Iron Director to ascend the throne kicking pennies. The duck duck-duck comes straihg straight out of Canada to wake authority from hunting humanity on the inn inside the vanity fee freezer. Do you still feel the checking of this one out? Speaker length of pederast predator editorials that come from South Korea to enact less healthy legislation. Bring the roll of a shut-down law. We discuss the classic franchise with squat and diddly form of socials that outlast the grungy class acts by a long shoot.

 

            - Less inhibition my dear Kev all forty hangers will live in a house of evil laziness that interrupts boxing natch brutish film. I’M UPSET ABOUT READING LIMBS and too soon with French crime scenes that know my husband better than I know my wife. Let’s move a few houses down the gurney Pennsylvania -

25/06/2014 - WATCH WHILE THE ENGLISH

• Watch while the English for later becomes Kurdistan’s top source of wealth in practice. There is no I Ching left around to canter around the square with, no sanctuary where all the hot babes relax and gather sun tans and black malignant marks on their best friends’ skin. There is only a beaked man with his branch of a nose going quack, quack, quack-quack until all the treasonous treacle has dissipated out of his system and become significantly reminiscent of something other than a boy band addicted to its own produce or the screams of little tarts on the little televisions in the history museum where animation started and stopped and then started and stopped for real this time, not just for cheap laughs and visceral thrill into political pleasure and the sounds of ones voice as it crashes into the waves without support or any other means of producing socks for productive portmanteaux.
•  
• The mistress means for this to be a definition of your surgical procedure into medical matters and a laughing stock that for some reason hates you as much as the rest of our motley crew do despite the fact that you always carry suitcases and spare suit jackets with you for the will and the good of the people and their ancient board game affectations that just won’t sort themselves out because they precisely don’t want to acknowledge a future without a man in a bland curate’s wrinkle or a dot on a Dalmatian or even a spore of rhapsody against the Tahiti shoreline. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about all the times you went surfing, I’ve had a burning question. I can’t quite remember what it is but rest assured there are scorch marks where my heart used to be. Not your fault, mind you, mind like yours couldn’t juice up a turkey or recall a receipt for an item that was lost in the war effort because mummy needed to keep all your uncles alive.
•  
• As I know it now, I now know it and the universe is French and within a tree with a delightful head of red hair that just blurts out punctual remarks on rushed efforts that go ahead of, that precede the law by at least a thirtieth of a sentry or a pick and mix barrage of consolatory card-making malware with money somewhere blending with another virus just to satisfy the unnatural predictions of a videogame I never actually owned owing to my undue obesity. We’ve all been there, with our trousers around the snow because the weather just wants to be cooler and the heat is ironic that way when dealing with the winter, it makes and cracks wise in completely irreverent ways and in comically irrespective suits; not the one’s he leant us or so he finds it fitting to say out of some false sense of tipping the fulcrum to be beside the drunks on the alleyway at night and their eventual Screaming Mimis.

24/06/2014 - BEST GET STARTED

Best get started on the reptilian fairy folk and just look out at that ocean. The word is wilderness not WILDNESS, they don’t deliver you from the God liver on the body of callous water. Some wash up on the shore just to get mad. They eat their own tongues up on the lower echelon, they cut them in half and share them with disease, build a rafter with the ensuing friendship. Bicycles go on for days and the young’uns don’t know enough to raise their own steaming ears. He thinks of devilish backrubs, source of General BottomRubble, and what if I told you that I could charge the fee up and set it off like a firework?

            In the Bible basin the network lightningwhataretheydoing was aloft of a wheelbarrow and no-one was listening to mix tapes, not while the logs preceded those that would inevitably follow with inevitability in their following. Thatsundya thhe wayout took its shp to the edgi of a blindman’s contumely because it resembled a birdbest nest in sunnier climes. This is the feminism of radicalism, this is the bedpost tied to a wrap-around blanket and the works of psychic sweeping. Be like Goodd a little, aintgotnowheellsforfamily and that’s just how we role now. Everybody had to be an autumn pile of leaves running through a whale carcass and nothing else while the actors waft their face with award ceremonies and battered fishcakes. They really just seek you out or so I’ve had it heard by the many sea critters that don’t belong in your encyclopaedia. Don’t you ldg ghli dkdbanw for parties of the standbackstandaloe poorside. I was feeling DoNE To and paertly evoked with flame. So pity that, that is the story of sorry of the fs that couldn’t be curmudgeonly anymore thn a fealty to shuddered jigsaw consonants.

            THE RESS GRAB IS FLASHY AS A SIDEWALK AND NOT ENTIRELY ABOARD AN ERUDITE DEFTNESS OF SPIRIT AND CALM ANYMORE THAN PLACARDS OR SOMETHING OF SOMEWHERE WITH SOMETHING ON SOMEHOW. Everyone asks we who makes the spittoon spin for as long as it does and I can’t aswer because I don’t have the English grasp, that good old case of strong tongue because its sliced and not even in my damn mouth anyhow. Everyone has been don to ellert or done toalert propaganda for a prupper gander. Te words flal abart with confetti emulaion. Like cobalt sinking in the mud of mush. Elysium opened right up for wrong reasons. HANDS IN  FILTHY WATER COME BACK NEWTERED.

            Apart form that the build is a rope along the calenture Clementine that is a lover’s bullet of blue sketch comedy. There was something where black hair was and now that’s why the priest has been marched onto the quartz clavicle of the clerical shipmate.

            TAh the te blood type remains a prudent implication of broken wooden on a biardgae of indecipherability. So long as every other word is dyslexic friendly then youcna bet that the remainder won’t be so kind as to break from their shock.

23/06/2014 - HOUSE SMALL TEETH

House small teeth for grey dogs and great teeth for smooth dogs – things get tricky after the two blend together, things get complicated. Your sense of muscle control goes into spasmodic modification and that’s as good as two remote controls pointed at the same, wrong device. The sound goes up but that’s because they did it manually like they do in the olden days before yellow hair took a drastic improvement for the worse. I’ll tell them to reap what they can while the drudgery has its gunfights over the mountainside because of light orchestration. These are the words of a lovely woman wading in her own ideas of Honduran putrefaction. Poseurs want to rock around the tribunal and bop along to the inquiry until the poet slams down the gavel for the high and upheld judge. The cow bells are pontificating.

 

The Mr and Mrs Cheque                                                         of Death Introversion

Amelioration                                                                           and Leaning Towers

Art in Lands of Flush                                                             Skid Row

Print over the Last Object                                                       Suspend over Brandy

Red                                                                                         All Over

White                                                                                      All the While

Blue                                                                                         All Cooking

Then Esquire                                                                           Goes to Hell and Back

 

            This song belongs in the scrapheap because of all the guitar riffs and excess hair that’s trapped between bars. Reuben spins Amelia Whiteout, spins her, reads her boyfriend like a bad party, opens legs and influences pedestrians as they waste their waspish remarks on valedictorian hat stands. True enough shouters will shout and callers will call but politeness will be put politely away, tucked in some gents swanky pocket for the next Bocce tournament. Attention comes and sits with the man on the red hill with his black Oni while his last ditch attempt goes flapping against Suni Sands. You know you’re in trouble when the tropical island has you out on your ear while the sweepers start to matter more than the things they keep clean.

 

sequential performance                                                                       footprints isolated

the wind let’s out sleep                                                                       to muslim friends

turn away                                                                                            let the storm blink

dashboard lights control me                                                                control them

breathtaking specials                                                                           menu

lumps of deletion                                                                                past in pasteboard

here are some thoughts                                                                       intensified

here                                                                                                     in misery

 

            Jetpacks are good girls who think of LPs and in doing so lose all sense of self-control and just wing up into the sky with rushes of superfluous star fluid. I don’t know how much will brighten my juice so best get a job before the moon lets me down with browbeaters. I only have enough time to respect one discipline at a time, I don’t know about this happening in a Japanese garden though. I prefer crowded avenues filled with gold prospectors rigged to blow off some steam. They all disappear with OK versions of goodbye and ad revenue. Some writers live on a calendar-based diet but the rest leave that grind behind the grid irons of much too late. Reconciliation is a care comparison and all things besides because you don’t pursue Roman mythology or concentrate your specious meanings on Latin. Say something tiresome of trees.

22/06/2014 - THERE SHE IS IN THE SILENT MOMENT

There she is in the silent moment, three o’clock and giving it her all to climb a humble oak tree.

Some might say that she’s right there but we could just take her down in that case with a bow and arrow which we obviously can’t and shouldn’t.

Therefore

Let’s wait her out and feed off of her psychological pathology, scrambled as it is with a side of lemongrass ham and splayed out by the mischief of men she was taught by; their tears and whimpers in cloak rooms.

Strictly

It’s all training and deserving of sponsorship, orange as burnt acres and the boys that dare to cross them in their coal shoes and matey bruising.

Getting good has never been so place-holding: form the words that tongue can’t tell from adventures in the woods with animatronic bears and their sheet-wearing cousins that load up with cardigan bullets and white compressed microphones.

Just say thank you and you’ll never want for long grammar again, the woods will shut up their berries in Glaswegian ministries for the novelists to drink up and kill for their honeybee masters.

Searing pain and extreme cases of hallucination on a busy bus journey to an undetermined destination

 

Cut it down for her and her army of healthy shout outs to blameless individuals in their sleepy waking and hive mind screaming. Grab your camouflage jackets and let the levee pale in significance for once rather than theatrical echo effect without all the crude drawings of children’s book illustrators and their crummy runners on their clammy catwalks. Bravo can blue up the cabins, graduate the occupants to a new now level of eel elevator so that fresh power sources can be speculated on with all the gift horse economics if an inaudible shutterbug. Don’t say something while nothing is on the table, all that the people really want to hear now is they’re haircuts resemble Poseidon and all his hoary restaurant chains.

Gifted

Get your fingers out with a little black dear chewing on her own tincture for fear that the Lycos

Times out and thanks will call the leaves into boycotting down

The river with the rest of the scallop. If only the easy would smile in their composition

And then we can shake them off with hold-ups and heists. You try. You replicate. You supper.

We sup.

Supple Armouries.

I’ll stay guarded as long as she remains unscathed by reburied goodies

 

Come and kiss this pain away with unkind truthism and let’s see how the Italian sopranos will interpret with their warbling penchants for unwavering retching of spiritual debate. The right honourable leading lady would like to raise the gate but she hasn’t read enough Russian literature so there’s been argument in the pretty rain because walking out of the door will only lead to thousands crying Uncle, Uncle, Umbilical Comeback! Wire-walking, we’re all just living without her on a teetering spot.

24 hours later: Simple handles bereft of commentated eyebrows

48 HOURS LATER: RIGHT IN THE ADDICTIVE FACE

21/06/2014 - AND THIS IS ALL VERY NEARLY THE END

And this is all very nearly the end. I’m not joking, I’m incorporating this message to you, dear audience of one, through another blahdeblah ensemble. I’m heading out, off to the bridge, off to anywhere else and you’ll have to deal with a severe lack of nonsense in your daily routine. Sorry but this is just the right thing to do, my hands are getting tired and the words are losing tact. And lightness. The lightness is received by so few budding ears and I can’t have it all reverting back to me in my novel hovel. So this is my warning/goodbye, hence the coherence. Please allow me to absolutely lose that within the next picosecond. Artistically.

 

Everyone in the clouds has a day of STD except for the roadworks operator. He’s an orchestrator but surprisingly not that big a fan of opera. He’s more of an operant conditioning guy, he wants to entertain your remote synapses with the very conception of a tissue being stuffed inside the drawers and many dust mites of your mind. This is the train on a trail with its tracks scattering around for residual food after it has passed, that was the wreckage of the rec room that flew over your heads. Just flew, not was burst. Leave behind footnotes for the poor and sweet-faced but don’t ever expect them to have a jovial attitude towards imperfect whiteness. Some might say enough is enough but I say that telling is only half the realisation and not even the smarter half. Brian has Erasmus in his sights and will pee out through the gawky moments of a child actor caught in a jeep’s headlights. The oldest and grainiest trick in the book,

 

            Winsome. Slipstitch. Keyring. Some glow of green facing off with the red while violet and fuchsia turn theinternet into a game show filled with foiled bespectacled fellows and their undeniable facial hair. We call it an incredulity down in these here constituencies, we’re big on the drawl but never carry pistols just in case tourists come along and get the wrong idea about the words on the page and how we’ve shuffled them about with the whirring of our spit and tacit  nature of our dry mouths. Why should I dive away from your perfect perfume counter, weird New Zealand lady? Or are you just keeping that mask on for community college art projects to laugh at? I bet that’s the case, the vibrations are telling me so with confirmation and car batteries.

 

Aortal subtext – jet streams of streamers and Apple pies and true crime according to film and television it seems now, it seems now that the boardwalk has lost its lasting appeal, it’s appendectomy scars are reaching for somebody that looks like something you threw up last night after your bender and all the blue lights that supposedly stunned you into finding your way home without a bed knob or umbrella. Always greased-up, never closeted for traffic parties. Go, they’re super cool actually/

20/06/2014 - FIRST FORAY INTO PURCHASES

First foray into purchases of a political nature. The price goes up along with the fire, along with the whimsical tongue chart. Sticky bombs delay the crouching mid-fall. A whole slew of undoubtedly a hat bush, pretty neat for preordering. All my old videogame devices that turn on the fans with humble bits of electronics that break out of influenza who spike the minions in tubes like it were just a drink with the guys at an indiscreet bar.

I’m going to kill the licky, itchy summer with my stressed out sighing thumbs that harden at the thought of actual saliva and other doors opening to show up stickers that show up skin irritation that ends with rows upon rows of hot water tubs that apply to today so long as you wake with sore throat acidity. Tea or water would be nice if it weren’t so cold and close here, now you know why I keep going outside with whispered spice racks in their grassy chairs and meadow tables.

Here’s a thing that saves and slaves while it pretends to be a magnate shark filled with ball bearings and look-alike IT’S OKAY. The response will be to overlap responsibility with criminal normality. Why is it a red possum? What is the equivalent to green in that respect? It was at my pleasure without snorting and coming across as a nibble in the night time environment. You’ve gone and done everything wrong and hopefully so. You’ve been sleeping plastic, sucking in shucked retaliation. What else can I update you on? BRIGHT PATCHES OF LITTLE BODIES. Take out the clip at the end of the oft burnt video. I do that every time, I make sure that there’s plenty around my bikini line but that’s all right around there and crotchety.

It was automatic, the Russian's delivery truck truce opened right up and all the waves and factions and depleted forces came circling down the proverb that is my self-sustaining soul, a fish that resembles the floppy part of a shoe. The whine grew in tempo and the hemp reacted crucially to the excommunication with a laugh and a cold stare from the minotaur sociopath who reads every night to appease his pinkie finger. The strangest lies are commonly occurring on the blip in the radar that they keep ticking over in some aloof military base with distempered blip readers who trudge up their feelings have to go shopping with friends to regain it.

This is the semblance, a diving board covered with numbers and over numerousness according to the stature of most bean poles without their precious calculators installed into their lower portions. Deep down we all know that this is the end and the title even signifies it, I changed it from Grab Your Curtain And Hat, Son because I knew that you wouldn't get it. The first cereal of the day might but you with your protein deficiency and long-legged xylophone are just too busy to return its calls.

19/06/2014 - WHAT MAY I DO FOR A SOOTHING SKIN MASSAGE?

            What may I do for a soothing skin massage? A beast? A seductive splash of cologne crammed full of inquisitive child blood? The whistles of the South catch fire and inspire the Isle of Wight to seek independence and pained expressionism. Let's swap the stars for pencils, just as an illustration of friendly power. Patience is hardly enjoyable for the dramatic and commended. Just ask them: what is intended as a rose? May we proceed? Fascinators? And the fascinators? Just what exactly do they entail for people who sit in the standing and stand in the sitting?

            Silhouettes and standard singing skill stays forever with little breaths and wise tickets stuffed in compost pockets which is to say pockets made of banana skins. How they make a man live without aikido and she'll become a higher turnip without blame or obscure retreat. Have at thee, clear custom held. I had bare graphology in my shavings and now I'll never come again, I couldn't cope with all the hellfire, all the rickety automobiles and dramatic hair flicks. The people are poor because of the wicked overcoats and shortened straws that double for platinum albums. You, sir, have a kiddie right between the eyes and salvation troop gear that wander down shy roads and temples of side lanes. I will have to descend the ladder, cross the less honourable routes, hovel a while in bruised ashes until the bloom comes off the London cast and their overtired evil. Be gone, bell down a pity patter and have no time to slit the throat of a curvy piece of furniture. Thank heavens for sailors and their well-earned errors, brushed back as they are. Is that a growl primping the dirty old babysitter for better arrowheads and the birthday cake they always wanted for themselves and then their children and then their great grandparents. No doubt the years have changed barbers for docks and six thousand dollar post codes that rest green and untroubled by angelic retrospect. Only the first time for trivia and pulling out the maverick gun for original sin and crunchy biscuits naturally. The innocence goes along quietly and barely manages its tap solo because of the call to arms and the cinematic trailer that misses the nub of the matter entirely so that the audience can get a really nice look at the white corners of their various separation boards.

            Stumble and I'll follow. You strike me with super amazing space and that's the trip to Mecca sorted for our offspring's future. Here's hoping they become eccentric and not at all awed by depressive states as picked up from the backyards of various stress eaters. The harmonica play s a croon and every thing starts to clatter into unbelieva ble breakages that hum along to their own peace-inducing leg-biting. The back is broken for universality and sixty tons slide across the stretch of a former model that conducts the reading group wit a fairy wand on either side of Year 11.

18/06/2014 - CYSTS ON THE PLAIN

Cysts on the Plain: the latest videogame from the company that brought you Herod Guest and his Law-Abiding Babes. We need him rectified by next Tuesday so that we can talk back to his parents and slap them silly for daring to question royal white shirts and frilly dactyls. I look for truth but find that violins don’t know a damn thing about any damn decaffeinated drink. This suited lacklustre needs a mumble in a friendly ear, a tumble in the clay tennis court while the rest of us damaged people retreat into our communal aprons. When this is done, shattered dogs will whet themselves on extreme heat and trigonometry dilemmas. Dial-up crescendo.

 

One, two three, four, five, six, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, thirty-four, seventeen again, twenty-one twenty-two, ask for a parent twenty-nine, sixty-six a shambles, rough cobbled gobblers in green-tainted suits and wooden overcoats, seventy.

 

Any power you have is fro and every discrepancy I possess is to. Remember the teardown of dinosaur claws and faulty automatic fans. Don’t let me stop your letting out of tourist attractions to the tune of an autotune scream in the face of sequential boxy dwarves. We all know that the white snow revels in sophomore howling and currant couldn’t. Don’t let the beak nose drop from your mouthwash cap while the clock rages on with the opposite wall to the end of one another’s purpose. Test the limits with lime juice. Breathtaking flurries, airy flotation devices, gentle geese in crystalline glasses, never the nether, just you think about retiring whilst the flotation devices are dribbling their commodities. Tell all about the much-belated goodbye for sons of loathsome pop stars and ever-gracious conjugal relations. Looks like a job for the credited cast and their cascade of shameless batteries.

 

Put it down to the length of some vestibules, lay it all on the lover’s tiff and how it takes neither grumbler anywhere other than the writer’s retreat where they neither want to be nor want to accrue holiday photos of. Some might share the iffy double exposure but you remain a true friend to the alienated golfer, namely ME with my MS, and the mildly coastal back-up band. How we all see heaven is conducive to how we all sing about hell. I’ve been wanting to have wanton crocks for a long while now, dressed up in my croc tie and alligator shirt. It’s much too much tooooo harmonica solo.

 

As for the rest of the soundboard, the springboard has a few choice things to chatter about with jitterbug refraction and various other immediate reactions to the catalyst of this walk space. Mulch all the way to red and back again without castigating the minute-by-minute crossing guard who leaves the saxophone inside all night with fiery lips pressing down in all the wrong places. Pass out outside my door and I’ll drag your self-portrait along to its soulful climax. All it’ll cost is a visit from the cops. I like the cops, the sunlight in their hair.

17/06/2014 - THE RESEARCH ASSISTANTS

The research assistants stopped coming back. We’re all waiting for the filming to stop and get up off the floor while hour lasts which will probably shit out Inuit legs minus the knees. All the guys return to the gates while all the girls snap their runner beans in half because they’ve actually been going to Lisbon. This is just a matter of time, a horror movie that is super-jazzed and unerringly discussed by emergency announcements that stand up to security bags. Weird packages will react to the despondency of obrigado. Is that a thing? Correction of the masculine to feminine. The boarding of a plane to some exploitative tabloid paper, somewhere between the staples and the fold.

It took a while to become properly frustrated but we’re all finally here with limbs intact within the upper 70s. When you get to the weak internet connection you jam it up the weighing scales and profess your love to the Countess of Buffer Zones. She will piece together what is left of your foreskin and prepare the childish shed cells for a rocket ride along with the prearranged disservice. Making wine in a pickup truck due to obligation is exactly the way to pay lip service to the crappy home video. Homme. This is where it’s at, a grovelling apology to the cranky vacation. Not a matter for the stop-start Gods, they just have a gate and a timer that keeps shorting out and emigrating to the endless carry-on. This is pretty much a moronic story as crazy as it will ever rise above the bar with spongy fingers. A true embarrassment on the bed sheet.

Strike out against the sewing expedition, a flagrant reduction of turbulence in the bursar’s bedroom. I’m going to call this case closed, the Finnish destination. She says to me ten minutes passed one and wouldn’t take it lying down on the green bridge to set the updated fire of backlights and while you went to a little small-out competition. An umbrella snags on wasps with ice cream precision. We’re getting lunch for the eggy brickmen and their appalling rancour. Reasons why could just go on for ages.

                        Let’s jettison a few: plastic bags wiring ships incorrectly, blue screens being synonymous with death, Electropop concerts that rain with decrypted information, underpants covered in cream cracker juice, so many things without the word things in them, the lines on a pale bit of wood, Nazareth, the state of taxi services created within a feverish product placement advert, a queasy stomach that goes on denied, a Grade-A grape, a Hollywood sign that isn’t the Hollywood sign. More than enough. Less than a little lucrative.

Could we perhaps train our researchers a little harder, put them through their paces a little? Undress them with righteous boredom? Activate the watches and their pet wretches into cold night’s eviction? I’m trying, you’re altering too much for me to handle. I’ve got to hold on to something. The cells and the rancour out here.

16/06/2014 - THE INDIE SCENE

THE INDIE SCENE expects one to not only fight as well as flight but to fright a bit as well. Dog hunters have more meek mannerisms about themselves and those guys are definitely not 100%. Don’t wake the little children up from the tomb or else their mothers will activate fan motions and motion fans and then every Tom, Ezra and Maxwell will want a lift from their leftover lobotomy deadlines. We grant three week grace periods provided that you can ascertain just why you are graceful and how TB has hit your devastating family in an unyielding yin-yang of eternal proof. We’ve got our own deadlines to make, after all.

SOME PEOPLE TOLD ME ABOUT THIS LIVING that you can make from stringing together bits of ragged wool and reaching it over a tall brick wall just in case any ghosts or ghouls decide to be bookish and respectful of boundaries. No-one knows exactly what to do with a hysterical woman in her underwear here, right now we’re double-booked and the aspirins aren’t very nice to the taste. Just let it rest a while on your palate and see yourself for yourself, for your health. That’s etiquette, you’ll see, that’s the right sound for sorting ring-binders to. Some people working here feel most depressed when having sex with fat ladies when it turns out that that’s all they want to do otherwise. We don’t exactly see the other half of the Time Bang from here because we’ve somehow forgotten to register the experience as is wont to happen when the motion fan is electrified by lecture notes and field theories that go on unanticipated by college professors until their dying wish. Relax and smell the fizz at the end of a dirty remote control: that’s life expectorating. The fungus is superfast and irrespective of blonde, brunette and even blue Barnett. Cue the loud guitars.

BOOKMARKS WHEREVER YOU STEP, crafting the circuit into something decidedly more statistically possible, by a long and gargantuan margin of error. Plausibility keeps returning like congress echoes and fruity burps which go on to gain sentience and do spectacular things with French women's moustaches and cappucinos. You can see why I like thee to snap like a rubber band, you're all soul and just because a smattering of the feminine concert members want to win battles with tiger cubs and trendsetter button pushing. These are just a few of the lordly air products, curled and spruced up with iron-like fire and war drum gel that leaves all the men fussed and tapping their chins with gauntlet finger. Storms rush in with ionic hardhats for supersonic fatheads. They just want to chop and chop and rescind their fledgling colour schemes that grease actor's heels just so they can turn their darkness into a line of cars that drink quick glances between forbidden lovers. This happens every day with pessimistic teenagers and how they joust with faced facts and the deeper blue of the devil's tart grin.

15/06/2014 - ZERO TOLERANCE OF THE BODY INSPECTOR

Zero tolerance of the body inspector, zero is what she said. She channelled the numbers, crunched them against her steely knee and intimated the blood everywhere. He told us to redirect her phone calls through to the baggage counsel in case she has a trepidation we haven’t foreseen or rather foresworn, am I right? Am I right? Reaction is the treaties of this nation, indefatigable reaction towards the dwarf community up in their long gangly arms just show us who’s boss finally, boss of the pen factory that is. The ink well is now a spillage and the artists will spill on their own account because artists are artistes and lack artisan élan to operate on a proper transmutation level. They’re constantly advising us to look into our voices while she is beginning to allow thick patience onto the parking lot of her memory. It’s sinking in like wet concrete on the bodies of several sweaty chaps and their capsized gowns.

            Shave a few times and you deserve a break and a five gun salute while your back is turned so that we don’t have to leave off ceremony until the bearded general says so. He enjoys drinking his gin, thinking of her and her judgement and her absolute correctness in the face of abject sexism in the racist workplace. Thankfully not everyone contributes to the mess outside of allowing it to tickle them under their chin. I like to think I’m a part of this number but then I am opaque and that’s just one end of the spectrum. Whether or not you believe that opaque politics is real then you’ll like me and the way that I double-crossed when the tip is hot and true on the kitchenette weighing scales that fill up four quarters of my flotation subjunctive. Some women want the Somme, others prefer the day that you get off their case about being in an interview with a moonbeam at one time. Lies and party favours, my friend, they’ll get you in the end and decry you like the hunter they whored you out as.

            But what are friends really? What can friends do except create a solipsistic environment crammed full of brochure literature and sleepy dodging of fleas and ticks depending on where they set up camp on the carpet. The lab have destination paradox fleas, these nibble away until you get to a specific point in space and time and that is absolutely key to absolutely everything. She’s involved in this somewhere but we don’t bother ourselves so much with what she does or does not appreciate to know. Rowdy car journeys fill the skies with papier-mâché greetings and fallen tissues from the leaf fact that he was way too solipsistic to make up a recovery position for the nest egg. Oh dear, looks like we’re all jellyfish now, we’re all faking out with red sauce. Oh dear, we’re our own flash and bang, our own little scrumptious gobble of Godliness. Mine tastes Greek but that could be reasoned out.

14/06/2014 - THE 3 MAJOR CHANGES

The 3 major changes coming to livelihood are:

1. 1.      Reading aloud will be prohibited. I mean really prohibited, not just tied down to a bag full of steaks and flung onto a hapless river I mean smashed in the mouth kind of prohibition. All the junk that keeps floating to the surface shall be swallowed whole and picked apart by pikes and manta rays with gleeful surnames like Willis and Jackson. The retrospect part will come in later but not before your time is due, not before the frilly little letter box is exploded with mental jokes about menial labour in holiday camps. This, of course, is non-negotiable and relative to empirical causality clauses should you have any leftover in your indictment.
2. 2.      The toilets are out of bounds to the disc jockeys. These particular jockeys are far too jocular with their bladder control and bowels, say no more. The rich diet can only be to blame but the sexy punk of a head of department wants to sic the leopards on these blighted jockeys so it's probably for the best that they clear out their desks and prepare for a Swindon hoedown. That is the proverbial, mind you, a real Swindon hoedown would normally be of little to no consequence and would only serve to frustrate our destinies and the destinies of our glove compartments. We don't call our wives and husbands glove compartments, they are obviously amygdala daises.  Panic over.
3. 3.      Asterisks will be eaten by hashes and percentages. The spiky nature of these footnote indicators are a source of nourishment for more popular symbols and that's what charges them up so they can go on for dictionary ages. All these tags now require sacrifice and what better could be sacrifice than the blonde boxers of semiotics? We're not filed with hate, contrary to popular belief, we just get so board at the end of the exam season that we sprinkle our dialect with the death of many signifiers to please our ham-fisted gods of rock and tumble. We keep them preserved in Tupperware containers until the dreaded glorious day, we are always improving methods of keeping our black dots fresh and indeed succulent.

The 20 small nothings that remain will be:

1.    Ask and you shall receive.
2. 2 Rebuttals.
3. 3 Superhero comics from the back of the shelf.
4. 4 Water-skiing as a form of drunken expression.
5. 5 Old men reading on buses.
6. 6 You want the second one.
7. 7 Hanging out laundry will cost you and yours a tenner.
8. 8 Switchblade knives are best read underwater.
9. 9  Talking through depression isn't always the safest route.
10.    Shipment of goods.
11. 1 Erasmus and taxes.
12. 1 Neil and his new sexed-up band, The Oblivious Oblivion.
13. 1 He's all right, darling, he's good in the hood.
14. 1 Drawbridges.
15. 1 Only the quick rule over the clean toilet cubicle.
16. 1 Cherries and honey and bacon slop make for a right old mix.
17. 1 Britain.
18. 1 England.
19. 1 Scotland.
20. 2 Long division.

13/06/2014 - EVERYONE HERE

            Everyone here: claim panache for God's hypothetical reward. I know that face like a remarkable man with eidetic memory and a blue blazer to call off police strip searches. Let the vermin beware the stones, the hail of the overturned and suitably witnessed. Why on our troth? Why do we scratch brands and brand jailbirds? Herd instinct and officious upbringings as found in the cornucopia of pen barrels. The legal system told me to say so much of old men and their running shoes. How symphonic! Such countenance that spares armies from the cunning throwing shapes in bland cardboard backgrounds. Attacks everywhere for everyone except us tonight. Say good evening to the peasants while their villages burn but don't you believe a word of what they say when describing their true plight, the one that happened long before the bloody dealings. Artisans, the lot of them. Top of the class, would you believe?

            What's the difference? The different? The differential? The boycott of the barricades make up for this woman's lack of presence of mind. She denies thanks as a viable resource for healthy eating and habitual compulsions for regrouping strategies. There are no conditions, ague or septic matters of the illustrious poet's rue. Here's the way out of the park, through the clang and stuck stupor that just adds hydrogen to the mix like a virtual washing machine. Someone's got to collect the outskirts of the town for property revaluing and push-up chin-ups. Wouldn't want to waste away like a little boy without his heart or little time for cleaning murky corners of his father's mind. It's the world where the antlers sprout like cartilage from rigamortis. Control your dirty, toothy laughter while the policemanremainabout, they have been known to shoot me for the centre of their misdeeds and the way they form concentric circles on a bell curve.

            Form a fist from the generations of inbreeding that transgress your sealed fate timeline and the timelion that protects it with overzealous mien. The literal integrity ends up tasting like wasted tea and wanted coffee that has been left wanting for a few beggar's hours. Hold dominion over the pyramid to understand the secrets of the parishioners and their self-proclaimed human rights. Return to dust via pencil shavings, channel the firm mating call of the rubber eraser. This is the tip, just a stony overview of the perspective that every wealthy man eventually grants at some point in his suicidal thoughts. Share the ghetto, blink at the rest of the neighbourhood until its blue in the chops and vermillion in the crusty eyepatch zone. Reactions are precious things, a commodity for philosophers with their panties in a bunch of concertina twists. Sensitivity runs in the bloodline, it is transmitted through poetry and demands to be relocated to a less harsh gender binary. We've really done something this time and the sentences get fewer for the fatter detectives. Stuff your face, it seems, and you lose your looseness to the dogs and their dodgy pavilion.