30/01/2014 - ANOTHER DROMEDARY FIASCO

            Another dromedary fiasco, another case of beers being set alight and turned to kindling, another poet trying to reclaim his sense of sensibility for the next grand composition. Let us return to the encampment and forget that we've noticed the lace being confiscated by the velocity multiplied. Let me give yon one good reason for hankering after hundred: she let the rascal have it with invisible tenacity. The taps are running and hunting a bunting with altercations for seventeen year olds, most seventeen year olds with sick breath in their domino masks and their malting after quantum surveying. Maggots are for Jared, Jared paid up front for them and has lived down at the docks for most of his life and he would thank us to thank him for all the times he's never met us. Our inventions revolutionise those around him but the poet just sulks whenever he sees Jared and demands to hear voices from other people issuing forth from his beachside mix. This is an emergency for haemorrhaging, a caricature of the emperor covered in scarlet and brown crusty bits that just jump out at you from the canvas. It's all really rather sturdy. I believe in you all, your powers of historic magnetism and self-aggrandising.

            The little boy's noise is taunting over the years, has been taunting over the years and will never stop until you just walk it off and pay him another day for the sunflowers he gives you right at that very moment. There's no easy way of cuckolding a gentleman of so little a stature but, provided you keep a little note in your stockings, you should be able to get away with it like a minstrel on a career high. The damned fishing, the days spent digging around in the ocean for vast opportunity and buyer bewares. There's a first time for everything including soul chips and the anvils on which they are forged by blind chavs. Bonfires in their eyes, racism in their digestive tract, so many bodily functions that just keep returning and giving the impression that they are busy only more exaggerated than it really needs to be in order to be taken onboard effectively. Serious fat men are always serenading the pub glass and possession remains a fraction of the law but not a tropical island.

            All we can do, all that is our duty is to wound grey remote controls and spell out the bings and the bongs from the smart suits and altercations that bury the cheesy ones with sexy sex habits. Give us a shout, give us a shout, give us a simple shell of a shout and the demographic will pay you in oodles for your troubles. This lot are the other ones and taming is not quite the bug in the lunacy that we hardened it to be. It's all gluten-free treasure, a daily reminder of liking bad ideas for chainsaw losers. The man is a child only as far as his beef will allow him.