31/03/2014 - PHANTOM MADNESS

Phantom madness = men in trolleys + Timely Emancipation. Barricade = barracuda = no friends who give up their guns and die for their country. We’ll see the people raise the flag with masks of mathematical structure or recorded track records that run as far as the elbow and no farther due to budget cuts and severe, severe telltale signs of dimorphic faith. Good evening to the school liar and his handy backpack filled with little people with both brains and bite. Bravo. After the snake, the aftertaste will burn the students alive. You talk too much and the tots will be covered with rain and presence of mind in wonderful battles that spy on better problem-solving activity. Hold yourselves in readiness. Take your knife and kill the theory like a woman in shaded clothing and all her years ahead of her.

 

STRIDENT BRAIN CHEMISTRY                          PATHS CROSSING AGAIN

                                                                        OH NO

                                                DON’T I KNOW

 

            Thinking on description – poor things in love = twice the wimp I once was. Attend the tale. Shave + Tread + Trod + Bridges = Troglodyte Physics = Fancy Clients for Half the Price. The demonic natter of swung will hold the hostage to the sky to moralise the bowtie off of most Mediterranean gentlemen who have long memories and short nods. No-one can get down there anywhere or anyhow just to prove the pedant his pittance was a kingly sum for the sake of the Roman Empire. Sentence the son and you accuse the father besides the point and we all know what kind of hind the overlord will shelve after that with his first ideas and verdant bed sheets. I look for truth for the definition mostly.

 

WHY AM      AND   NOT    PM      BECAUSE     THE    LANDLINE   SAYS  SO

 

            The sad little criminal has the potential to deceive with his tiny digits and proportionate crucifix. The magnifying is always a spectator sport and not one to go cheaply into that orthodox nightly engagement. The whip meets with the flesh and the cat gets out of the bag. Eleven people will march on down to the regular police office and shout out their lottery numbers for confirmation of their right to pass judgement. Not now but later. Not later but now we shall see the woman flood herself into the room and call on her spiritual divinity with little more than a superstar wrapped up in her knitted scarf. Keeping the peace, peacekeeping, remembrance of dart contests as quick as a flash in the party hat central zone, the one that’s quarantined and has been for quite a while now and nobody is willing or ready to tell us why. Something fishy in the water, smells like soot in fact. The plan chews back, don’t you know? Don’t you get me wrong whilst I’m up here waiting for your reactionary marrows and whimsy of God. The stamped and sealed envelope = fronds at the top = is where we all are going + good PR + messy recorder music.

 

                                    WANNA                                GONNA

30/03/2014 - CATCH DIAMONDS IN UNEARTHED FILM

Catch diamonds in unearthed film.

Start up a barbershop and don't tell anyone about it.

Dispense with formality like it was a dishy soap actor.

Ameliorate the accruement.

Call in the Calvary Cavalry.

Don't repeat.

Rinse occasionally.

Prepare.

Tear down.

Giggle.

FBI.

The jury's out on the call collection, they just want to have some fun and they've got a Frisbee ready for just such action. As of now though the children of the revolution are coming forth as kiddies and don't intend to slaughter little children in sharp contrast to the rest of recuperation. The eggs are on credit, the eggs are alight, the eggs are on light, the eggs are high, the eggs are defining journalism, the eggs are corpulent in their copulation with other eggs. The jury will stand before their peers and intend to incline until the sun makes hens for the gander to peck at. No-one has anything particular or choice to say about the Harley Slick Group or their intermarrying with Mr Thank's thuggish lot. They play tennis and demolish the demonizing of aged award ceremonies like scoliosis. The boiler heat needs to be moved along an hour and the canvas bags are establishing themselves as crates in the boxed-in arts of kung fu. That seat really exists and nobody is allowed to sit in it until the FBI and the CIA and the NSA are heaving heaven off Ground Zero again. The car salesmen are doing their bit by staying the hell out of the way. The stairway, the ladder, the airlift, the pillar, the scheming jamboree with physical handlebars have all been pulled down to make room for rushing air particles and angry Scotsmen with their feet all up in the cumulus for convenient purposes. This will come of nothing with rich sluice and proud fatherhood.

When it happens it happens like an agonizing scream from moonlight knobbing and too much observation thereof whilst the hob's been left on and the fire isn't shaping up to be a scar. The nature of the matter is as grey-suited as any consecutive executor and lasts just as long on the tip of the tongue. The armada is for thumping. Weeds and ironing boards. The baby is out with the bathwater again but the sortie requires neither for the drinking and consumable convocation. The textbook is as simple as therapy on a diet of dietary pills and thundered diabetes. Steady on. Dirty pool. Rich pauper. The time is not right for the tide to be so high and the day is not filled with enough blue to grease the winks of Afghanistan's poetry or the dangerously snarky tambourine terror. Creation comes to the dead just as pencil shavings issue out through a dog's plucked and trimmed arsehole. The silvery glow of the jumper across the conditioned whiteout is merely the continuum's way of telling us all to keep off the cold and to strap down every magazine vulnerable to attack. Romance to the mast, to the cavalcade.

29/03/2014 - SLIM LAPTOP BITING DOWN

Slim laptop biting down hard on the thirty second views thanks to the slim hope brought about by ‘Getting Started’ and the company sauce. The screen just shut off and tucked in its shirt like the black weekend lover we all try to forget. Getting around doesn’t always mean alms for the workers, it can refer to the mutation of the Ninjitsu culture into a constellation of deprived figures and figureheads. This is not a lonely heart’s column ad, it’s something else and far too important to rely on your patient observation of post-apocalyptic political thrillers. The mystery is in the action and keeping pace is just another form of exercise popularised by the bearded gentleman from the home quay. He just wants some friends and a place to lay low for a while as he rediscovers his talent for picking up women from strangers’ houses. He’s a stone cold liar, that boy and don’t deserve no further arm-flapping or leg-jerking.          I’m far too far from sorry right now, I haven’t even got the multimillion dollar question: what were the confirmations? Was it A: straight bluff, B: a series of unlikely events, C: scream if you want to go faster or D: the ticket dog will lose its head even further when I deliver my ham sandwich into its jowl.

This is the other way, the line manager who’s kind of settled down a bit thanks to all the crack and uppers that never seem to stop coming for clever chaps like you, mister. The ailing visitor came to his senses, reclaimed the child and being destined to chop up park fort the love and the glottis. This is the control room? I suppose I’ll just run a dustbin and salt shaker future filled with the physical imperfections, young mean women leave behind to make themselves . Whose fantasy is who’s one upgrade of Orion or the disembark of first class passengers. Anyone one guys, I said, ‘So that’s what happens with fealty and book launches to attend to. Henry aspires to lind minacity. He let aspirations on the par k and cut out the meony for th e sexy video that I found it to be from the photgraph.

Every time end is a weft funk atonement that doesn’t just stop with a little bit of kissing. You cannot enter the contest without naming and shaming the contestants, in case we thy they’re all grabbing their reading skills of SUPERINATTEND GIRLS KEEP ON TRIGGYING IN MY WELLINGTO’S AGAIN, WEIRD though. For once in the first war of the Madison’s birthday ahead of mine for five minutes. I’ll imagine you a plane out of here.

            A jig or a sagastone, there could be said no-more, The sand storms is coming and hitched by fifteen year old proofreading. The row went on for days and no-one bought that these screen people are karate in in natural human flesh and sex times with the air thus and nasty as a peashooter game on Winterhouse, surrogate sister explained.

28/03/2014 - THE SADNESS OF A PENNY

The sadness of a penny being dropped from underneath the coating of a subzero time capsule that whirls around and around because the video count has been dwindling and the wind will never stop. They yank out their CDs, the spectators, and make grand deals with the handshake chiefs and their seedlings that follow them around with long and winding contraptions that apparently resemble tropes from the little babies mouth. The female characters are not quite as extreme as they once were and have opted for co-opting the foolish, happy few who band together and perform heroic deeds without the necessary requirement of toupees. This wouldn't be the first time that the government has lied to us.

            The audio contact is cool because of its incessant need for making famous literary characters disappear via the storage lift. All that cranking and lonely tippy comeuppance that fills the ear with roaring delight and not a jot or spot of shame. Bad blood is always a rich drink, too rich for comingling with my heavenly, delectable blood. The saviours regularly donate. It's a smattering of trouble for the dribbling police tide that undulates with certain black biros in soapy porridge. There's something to the effect that inspires the aspirations of transpired unduly. The sorrow, oh long the sorrow! The fractions and the sickened go off individually and come back hand in hand with their strange bedfellows and each other like some sort of epidemic ring.

            The waspishness you contain within that birthright of yours will be the undoing of your unduly activity that lives by what it releases. It's the right channel but the wrong time to be alive in a robed universe. What else is new? The dog's tail is as sharp as its nose and sweeties make the shadows all the more zen with none of the retail price reduction. The ambling of prince minders are all that I can tell you about from my privileged place in the sand. The box is prickly and the prickles have eyes that exude ears and other pheromones. The old ladies are sweet for the prime minister because he desires it to be so, because he sends out all that propaganda for his unquenchable spirit. How vainglorious! The war lives like a wart on his shoulder blade, temperance rocking about on his heel like a sloppy mole. The respect they give you is 100% pure Egyptian cotton that polls the doodles and adds aspect to recovery.

            The one that erases the past will be the one to wear the extra leaky shirt on his simplified mathematical back. The digits will break through the breaks in the fabric and mangle the possibility to its very data core. The cumbersome tail of yellow-hearted liberals won't even provide an auspicious moment in Exeter. What can we do but stuff our meagre faces with malleable money bloats that don't even rhyme with the stems of marigolds? What else is there to trespass against and when does the series start anyway?

27/03/2014 - NO DESCRIPTIONS ARE AVAILABLE

No descriptions are available for consorts and their concertina ways with their beastly finds on the lantern side of things. Green heroism is truly newsworthy but somehow not tolerated around here, we are all proficient at shouting in conundrums at men at work. We don’t know who we were or are or where we wake up with what question and how nameless. Non-descript, non-percentile, persona. That’s the long and short of it, provided you’ve got the tutu on right and the tattoo isn’t playing up around the itchy crotch area. Going south for trout has never been anywhere near as plaintive as the glorious woman has made it out to be. She has no knowledge of what will be and nobody, repeat nobody, will give her the craven compliment she’s been seeking. The one with the iron hem and the Olympus stitching. All we can aptly remark on is the shape of the box that her head has emptied itself into and how arbitrary the sport of merely watching is for the clowns among us. The clowns are the ones with the arsenal, of course. They don’t gratify, they just like wearing frills for the sake of going against the grain a bit for the time it takes to be automatic in this world. Blink of an eye, working of a cuff, shot in the outside department. It all adds up to the eclectic playlist that classic literature has become because of our incessant hunger for foliage folios and the burning of them.

Some call them monsters but I wouldn’t touch them by a millimetre, not while the server is a hanker and a tenterhook at the exact same splint in reality. The balance is the whole truth, the offshoot is the branded accommodation. It’s a condo for the really small, really smart people who want to ride around in the bouncy castle whilst tipping back bottles of fire water and bolshy hair. The badgers come out to claim the arrests as their own, they come out with their young and huddled masses and just bring it all back now for the sake of the pop songs that made it through the inferno. The tree frogs wouldn’t stand for it and neither shall these lads. They’ve got their own fashionable version of knuckle dusters made for the realistically hardened criminal who doesn’t take no backtalk from any videogame controller. Only inches left alive, that’s the motto of the crew their developing and funding with careful hand movement and grand design. The architecture will be something to marvel at when its erected but in the mean time they prefer orgies and wine to matters of state. They’ve even abolished dungeon slavery to make things interesting for the kinky gardeners that watch them with frosty sermons right at the backs of their heads. The middle brings back the dead, the end does fuck all about it and the beginning just incites. He brings it all back that one like bells on a mobster’s casual cap.

26/03/2014 - THE MORBID END

The morbid end of the saw made it for me. It made each constituent, each sorry soggy part, each limb that fitted a body of hills, each trimmed simile. They never said they were jolly or musical so the phosphorescence went on and on without check or timely responsibility. The bells chilled the backing choir and made up sexy lies to reach out for crowd sourcing purposes. But what could I do? What is the easy case? Do they even bother with soft and cool heroics that lasted through the ectoplasm of curmudgeonly repetition on the latest limping website? Don’t bother. No, they just don’t bother. They just play their guitars and pat down the semantics officers of the square. None too politely neither.

Drum solo.

Warty words come tumbling forth from the lips of elderly Spanish gentlemen studying their oppressive books. Murderous methods cross their minds but only in the split second that they can’t conceive of, the melancholy of sallying forth into unbearable youthful debauchery.

Print more than one copy. The truth is a trumpet in a strumpet. Heathenish.

I am transformation. Destiny is the wind. Other subliminal chat up lines exuded from the glorious hard heart of political advertising. Virtue is a commodity that we all deal in, the final expense me all expect receive with cud on our teeth and parted reformation chucking our chins. The rosebuds grind down and bring you right back to the point of the song which everybody forgets as they start to wander away from their glasses and glasses cases and all other forms of real life screen wipe. The tune winds us and prepares us for shadowy thumbing.

How soon the course starts up in the thick of it, how soon the serious haunts start to occur with hanging, banging and chiding of the middle ground. Me and you – that’s the occupation fee for the shaky rocket that we summon as love. We never gave each other reasons to live, we just insisted that that was somewhere down the line like delirious heat or lamp light in the dark. We took it for granted because we could feel it on a sensual level but who goes by that really? Make time for storage, prepare for simpatico. Just be prepared for excessive amounts of room and flaps in your schedule that channel their own inner-wind in a really stupid fashion. That’s the rage apparently.

Drum solo underneath the carpet.

We stopped being on the guest list forty thousand eras ago. Wanting to be something other than otherwise is the ultimate ambition of all superheroines and a few collegiate superheroes as well. The werewolves are unleashed at the very varicose veins of this moment to ensure the resurrection of a thousand blithering heart liberals. It's a numbers game and we're winning our right to lose, we're making our innings up as we go along. The cherubim and seraphim are colliding with visions of topiary and tapioca tempests. The teeth meet with a web of computers.

25/03/2014 - GONE WRONG

                Gone wrong. Gone off. Gone to shit. Sardines. Milk. Tea. Splatter. Shatter. I'm getting. I've got. I like it like a reverend. I live the coffee for the journey. I like the hand that is constantly biting elephantine Argentineans. All the words and sprites. All that laughing and belly-aching. The taxman is coming to be three hours old and, for the next three hours, he will show you what it means to be a picturesque Welshman who just happens to be next of kin for your great aunt. Down the river, he cometh. He notes and notifies the wildlife from straight off the top of his head like casting off of structured quid.

]]

                This is Shropshire, chirp loudly and at great risk. The errands of Snowdonia cannot be shelled nor can the simple splicing of honeymoons and tepid feather storms. Who. Doesn't. Like. The. Nineteen. Sixties. Anyway?

[[

                Can you help yourself from forgetting yourself, can you can the crossword and yank up the drawbridge before the expectants appear for their pauper prices? The wound leaves scars and threaded bobbins to charm freedom from the semen if cinnamon commonality. This is the twitch. That, over there, is the short walk up lentil avenue. We do not capitalise there, not while the chumps leave their stuff in the undergrowth. It is truly sick, a nuclear waterfall that trips up over the tongue and lips and then the teat just for effective cancellation. The range of the mark is as broad as its target, as nailed on as a tack and as tacked on as anal. The wandering safety will be shot like lots and made purple with concentration and certainly not lavender so please stop thinking about it, you're interfering with our country bumpkin ways. The rosy water. You see it? The rosy water. You do see it.

]]]

                Limestone kilns and signature spreads = a haven for nature. Holding ten four plus new beds = creative overheads. Speculum and Importance and Ecology = Canapés. The proof of proving dough will challenge too much of the man for his beekeeping habit. This is the life that every kernel will come back up on some peace of mind like a world left behind by some pigeons of beforehand trains. Midnight misinformation. The seeing eye dogs will be beside the yellow numerology, beside itself like his and hers and their towel racks and the wide array of laundered money kept there.

[[[

                Dreams don't always come true for burnt up husks. Eve.

]]]]

                One-way tickets are flung straight off of geological gaps to take the rhyme as seriously as possible without paying the cost that most dating services charge with blind superiority. They've already left. The coast is golden and the waves are silver. Isles know what to do with the package holidaymakers that type up their own reviews on their own websites alongside their storage of dusters and hernias caused by those very dusters.

[[[[

                Help me out here. Hem my jackets. Teach me to walk. Make.

24/03/2014 - BEST FRIENDS ALONG THE SIDEWALK

Best friends along the sidewalk, the pavement and the formation is spent with as little human angst as possible. THE BEAST HUNGERS FOR DIATRIBE while the children of the world make things so holy and reactionary where feminist movements are concerned, these are all powerful aphrodisiacs. The next one will be higher and the walkabout will end in a rush hour takeaway meal. The rock snake will rise and then the bicycle will create low thud puddles but that would be telling. This is the cradle and the cradle has craft and large werewolf arms. Say thank you and halfwits will form a stereotypical antihero moving on into the world to prove that it’s really all your mother’s.

We don’t see the movements of a clerk’s hands but Carl really believes what he’s saying and believes wholeheartedly that this entire clock cinema is filled with flesh and blood. We separate and meet up in one hour, any deviation from the point will lead to abject suffering and a discussion born of that suffering. See the baby. It isn’t a fortuitous occasion, it is an acclimation. Did you know where to find the poker game when THE BEAST HUNGERS FOR DIATRIBE? The Royal Crest. Knock on the door. Say goodbye to your bunions and ask all the rambunctious questions about how to be a believable woman with fluffy tits and the like. That is how one spreads their wings, isn’t it? Such stony faces theorise the moment and ask around for proper guns for proper blokes. The dancing never ends fitfully.

Elegies for dames and their aftertaste. There is only one aftertaste really and it causes flatulence and vile angling motions. Don’t doubt the pretty face when the imp comes to call, to pipe and to scream bloody murder for the sake of the brown-nosing kiddies and their golden-stocked grandparents. It all vanishes in a puff of pink smoke with ice cream and other scents of home. It’s your home if you want it to be so, touch down gently on THE BEAST HUNGERS FOR DIATRIBE that comes inside and isn’t afraid, I can assure you. Do you like it? The sections of dragons and wire-tapping are overlapping like abundant creature comforts. Now look, mister, your meteor storm has really convinced us of our fuel shortage.

This is the cemetery of didn’tyouknow. I’ll be back in a few moments. The coffee will truly disturb you; unsettle your socks right off into the toast like poetry on rewind to peacetime. Reproduce THE BEAST HUNGERS FOR DIATRIBE and let us know what runs into the ground like a bed sheet on fire and grafted fisheries. Whelps would rather be away from a homeward bound date when they’re being happy, while they’re making money for the didn’tyouknow funding scheme and other sheepish enterprises. Not all of the dead are dead by reputation, some of them have dreams of excellence. The tubes go right up the nose like a million miles from Earth for sorry battleaxes and their superhero toyboys.

23/03/2014 - PRODIGAL DAMNED

Prodigal Damned.

NO GUNS, NO RECONSIDERATION

Smiling with will and thinking and waning over betrayal of leading ladies. This is a hard act to follow, two of a kind on a baize table with maize stuffed in the corners like some sort of hippopotamus trick of the light. The shouts are measured in Kelvin.

The measles, the mumps, the squares, the musical tops, the signal, the signalman, the coming to get it, the getting to come to it, the helicopter rotor condemning all favourability, the bullets that get us out of here, the drug overlord that we could have become had we not been taken up by the rapture of all things. We were told that we and our light will save the squeaky clean game of charades that the blue sphere seems to have become. The Chinese have their own bleak outlook and a gun trained on their ever-present, effervescent rival in business and shelf-mending.

GROAN IF YOU LIKE EM GO AHEAD, GI

The dimes and the brother of all breather tests that fuck my toothy delight with quality control checks and bad bras that have let themselves go a bit on the watchful gaze of a gentleman bent sideways. The cold mountain is really pleasant but I am under a lot of stress so perhaps we could just pluck up the foreclosure to planned escapology. WE TAKE NO CHANCE, WE COULD CARRY A MUSEUM PIECE AWAY INTO THE BACK OF SOME TIE GIRL’S TRICK Such an arsy thing to do with lift bells and various other paraphernalia that comes along and overwhelm the mediator before he coughs my buttons make into My Wars

What do you suggested in your lycra body suit quite down to Earth Ear Infection, the king that goes all the way up to the top of ribbon with EERR and a text laser right on back.

Some have told me to smash the apple, to mash it into a pulp of is intelligent self and then force it to sign a treaty which denies all knowledge of itself and ever succumbing to that dainty word 'peace'. Some have respectfully declined to take part and for that I intend to rub their names out with a really strong eraser and a suitably buff hand. The beards of the group, the glasses of the group and the chin clefts of the group all want to see a change in recreational activity but that's really no-one's department other than the dance studio's.

THEY LEAD THE ORANGE THREAD

TO THE NATIONAL STRIKE

This is what the command shells out - shucks and shimmies and the sound of horse's hooves clattering up the seminal architecture of Rome. All that sandstone and limestone and other stone will soon become some sort of walking group for the vertices, a place to corrode enemies and sing along with their lamentations as if the words weren't horrible enough. The diary entry tapers out here but this is my diary so shove off and go get yourself individually wrapped.

22/03/2014 - LIKEWISE

Likewise, ten out of ten axe wielders will feel a smell of dread and dreadnaughts that signify that the device is ready like an arsehole Christian King. We were the lucky ones with plagues and town searchers of jailers of locked windows and many centuries of treasured bubble bath and incredible beauty. How one wanes, the other won’t tell until the smoke has let the tower down for it’s harassment of gorgeous screams. It makes me anxious and an old story straight from the beardy lips of papa and his cursed runes that he usually keeps safe in the back pocket of his scullery jeans. Where there’s a will there’s a winkle and a quite often made testament to autumnal sweeping. The golden ring fires the gun and lets the musket balls fall down with the rest of the heavily-loaded day. The leaning of the foliage makes the day too dark to forgive the waylays for their trespasses and grandmother toads.

 

1. ain’t the arrows a memorable track of the laser show – with palms all sticky and psalms filled with mildew and just plain dew from reference libraries and other womb-like places
2. the  legs are eaten by the tree and the swords are being drawn away from the nuclear weaponry for altruistic reasons
3. Quivers, Strikes, Aims, Lames, Draws broad sword, Lets loose on edges
4. His eyes are all but entirely emitting sore head phobia. The fear is diseased and showered like hamper bones on the bruises of stock character design and changing for rebranding purposes and the cruising of a killer slaking the thirst most trusted advisors
5. DREAMY CREAMY TEAMY TEEMING LEECHES WITH IMPOLITE STITCHES IN LOBSTER PIECES AND DRUDGERY DUNGEONS THAT ARE TOO GOOD FOR CELEBRITIES LIKE US
6. to be in no way reasonable and responsible with assault course stamina and kisses from race tracks that outnumber the spaces on a man’s golden retirement watch with only a pinch of the original music and half a rope
7. for the betterment of white powder that lasts on the brain matter

 

Otherwise the obeisance will force the forest to be shown to the woods that handle the bespectacled loner some truth and errant adroitness. I’m not so bad, you’re fairly decent and the ones in the tower are as good as dead according to the Wolves of the Dykes. At least we can read with every penny and leave the first to be taken with taxidermy and famous brightly dance. Thinking makes the rap-tap-tap rather good with hospitality and kind aspersions. Stop singing, my little shindig diggers on your mighty bereft steeds. Little sleepers with headlights are crooning in the stables, probably trying to get us away from the pretty, sticky mouth of more manic horses. We must hurry with cack-handed gamey turnips. The warped mirrors. A body in the outskirts. All of us moving faster than we’ve ever moved faster than before. World’s such a remarkable place for tripwires and livewires and little else.

21/03/2014 - STOP EATING THEM ITCHES

                Stop eating them itches, stop meeting the bitches, stop being Pritchard for once in your life. For once in your life you can be some other dude with a bloke's mask and an ingrown toenail that sparks off fabulous conversation among the plebeian masses.  The children's TV moguls will come down hard on the subject matter like a tack hammer on an ant and you won't be able to grab your coat or castrate yourself before the headaches come rushing and flooding in through gaps and cracks in your perception filter. Be patient with them, they have noses in place all over the scenario board and they only want to respect your privacy so give them a reason to and they'll just slink off into a Slimmer's Gym. Assume the seating position and they will tell all about dill and various other appendices of a tiresome slice of life.

            People just say stupid things to sound stupefied and amusing and American on a morning talk show. The windows of opportunity vary from actor to actor and they all have their suitable detractors just like the wind in a hydraulic cupboard. The buttons are glowing; the greens, the reds, the blues and the pinks and it's for you that they toll and take tickets with wilfully witless disposition. The truly tiresome thing is that the hands don't stroke like they used to, not even across themselves on sunny days as deck chairs go by on the street. There's something deeply disturbing about arousing suspicion on a day like this. The blue twigs are only blue because the buttons have dictated it to be so or at least a small handful. Can buttons be turned into quantifiable mass? Touch it and see but be careful not to scratch or sniff. The world could forge a writer's paradise if you go doing stupid shit like that.

            Respectfully declining to run is the worst decision any man with twinkly lips has ever made and so that's why you don't see the like so much anymore. They're punished for their insolence and insubordination through spending time in the hydraulic cupboard with Marjory. Marjory made herself an arch enemy of Pritchard and that's why Erasmus finds the whole scenario fucking hilarious. Neil is just hysterically picking up lint for Mr Thank before his tank rolls onto the plate.

            These are the words they say:

PRITCHARD: Why I oughta!

MARJORY: Wish you wouldn't. You're always doing this, always doing this for common gain.

ERASMUS: Snigger.

NEIL: It's snicker.

ERASMUS: Who asked you?

MARJORY: Yeah, who asked you?

PRITCHARD: I asked him actually. His opinion is invaluable to me. I sometimes stretch it out and lay it on my mantelpiece.

MARJORY: Did you ask his opinion on this occasion?

PRITCHARD: Of course.

NEIL: Absolutely true.

ERASMUS: Brutal.

NEIL: We have shit to worry about.

PRITCHARD: It won't take long now.

NEIL: It won't be so obvious for too long. Just get yourself on the kharma.

MR THANK: Run along now, children.

20/03/2014 - THERE'S A LOT OF OLDER GUYS IN HOLLYWOOD

There’s a lot of older guys in Hollywood – the are all platting their pubic hair and propoposing their rivers and rivulets with old Etonian bastards who spend their ages thinking warm thoughts and little less than perfect days – I haven’t had a real date since I slammed the weak with a tender kiss – you are the old Etonian bastards – AHEM – the money is documented – the money is grubbed – don’t get in too deep while the careful clairvoyance of falling leaves with drift by with withered window red and lips – used to hold – since you went away – TEH BLUS – I ewish you a taker and a maker and a glance through a rear view mirror that was lovely and standing with persuasion and current payment of dollies and back cricks – she’s asking for you – your asking for me – you want tech support – pills will be taken – the green and white will lose themselves in each other to Jewishness – bed – it took the blue lycra to worry about – fooly – get me dressed while the popping opens doors and the eyes handling the opening up of key handles and batons of sharp-shooting – the invitation is an imaginary game of web fluid – the power track is a front for stale water – the sleep comes with nudity and gun totting for toddlers raised in Bromine solution – like Hernandez – like the sleep if YPN willl take up other people’s homely towels that works in favour of everything good about the great Goddess -  Mr Miller has wanted all along -

            Too real is this feeling of planting women in various audiences for expensive purpose of tying their hands and teaching them to teach others to do the same so that the massive trick can still remain a crafty course of ingenuity. I want to just express my sleepy time communication medication needs using up so whoever left the bright red beamer stuck in their jacket can at least have a whiff and a half to keep him from going home the all-out-war way round. The library catalogue will ding every time you pass through the passer-by and may even charge you for the experience of early reading. The tissues are for the packet munchers only so don’t even get ideas in that sandy box of a sandbox hairdo. The proper way of women is to stare until the hem unsheathes its loose threads and frayed cloth like the insecure little devils they are. Why do they keep doing it? Because they can’t stand burlesque.

            File it under junk and you commit it to lava. My assistant wants to meet a few more times before throwing her into pear-shaped party favour like a taxi driver’s nylon stockings that somehow come to rattle around in his cab whilst the world is at rest and the staff filed with champagne sandwiches and the many other chuffs that underlie trouser hangers wirh hand gliding has don’t even turn to…stuff. The cat has fished out the era and the stereotypes hot and very fusty with the option of taking svzkjbn for granted.

19/03/2014 - HER PEOPLE WILL TEACH URDU

Her people will teach Urdu to a bloodcurdling scream. The permafrost is scared and half in the abject terror of little girls, all strangled and mangled and tempting to the wrong park attendant in the shiny butt with pills and the cash cow slips away just to prove the jars are more than can be handled by everyone and their man in the red vest and white shirt that might just as well be cream depending on the light and the manic depression. The sweaty face will come back to bed and bring back my book to prove that touching is a hectic, fertile thing that matters much more than the blank expression and the nearly lunchtime with comedy that cannot be required by Dwight or any of his bolshy suicide gamer equipment. The calming presence is not the accurate age in all its accuracy but a young movie with sweet intentions and sloppy direction and production costs. What’s the gopher assistant doing in the  laree? He was worried about you once, spying on the red circles and violet sides that do what is something like sound but cannot be  a new boyfriend of ten minutes and a kiss with a cuddle in drunken drank.

 

I do love the British Philosopher but the soul remains devoured and devout in dreadful work that would be lost without the job of mire and beautiful every year of kettle drums and makers of wild jealousy that everyone will be very old on stage that creatures admiration through the simple act of stopping the curls from the theatre in process. Not one of my awful things straight from the cigarette humiliation that rises with leading ladies and visited loneliness and struggled mind changing and calumnious daybreak that drives by in third fucking assistance while everybody bakes the birthday through shears and blunt shears at that. You are awright and mystified with musses of misses and the missus will help the world to a drink and a sunny country afternoon. Stay silent and help messengers. Please tell me everything and relax while the diving helmet comes straight off, right off and dripping with yoghurt. This film will salve the Severn minutes like a phone ring with pungent bulging and everything is all right with packing peanuts so let me speak to her with travelled spanks and well-travelled leather attachments and imported strap-ons. I don’t think much of method.

 

You’re the future and that freaks the elephantine fuck out of me with dirty smiles and silly frowns all around with trust and green-around-the-gill milliners with eyelash continuity and chums of chips of the kid gloves being applied in the dressing room with all the branding of renewal and magnificent inadequacy of the lambaste order. Things are being flung around and the prisms are tough here, made of the material that can easily be rescued with a little buxom cake stabbing. These are the end times and the white of the satin dress wiggles bums. She will break your burn.

18/03/2014 - WIZARDS PLAY IN FOURS

Wizards play in fours, their skill sets proper and their rampage pretty neat. There’s even talk of a driveway and super sweet train track robots that lay down the line with their contraption fingers and speedy steams. Say the romantic fuck off like a curse or an accusation and the arse hat will tumble out of the clouds and make all the hairs on your loved one’s bald. They’re a fucking nuisance the size of corn beef hash and Wooden Cicero. You have a nice telephone voice that works in an office and champs at the bit for silvery sleek hair of surprise supplication and nice eyes for notice. Are they real? The hands are real, I can feel them without telling the rosy red lips of simplified roast links. Did you know that we retired to the Ironing Board with little capital remaining in our jumbo bank account? The comedians squandered all our shirt money as if they were making milk out of ribbons and goat’s hair ground up and locked tight with shouldered armpits. Keep schtoom.

THE DON HAS ARRIVED TO PLAY WITH HIS RAZORS AND IT’S ALL RIGHT TO MATE WITH YOU MATE BECAUSE THE TATTOOS ARE STARTING TO TAKE FUCKING LIBERTIES WITH THEIR COOKIE MUFFINS AND ARCH EYEBROWS THAT TALK TO THEMSELVES AND CORNER THEMSELVES AND LAZY DOWNSTAIRS BASTARDS WITH WHITE SHIRTS IN LOVABLE CLIMATES THAT MAKE BIG DOVES INTO PARTY BOYS WITH MINISCULE SCAR TISSUE. HOW IS SHE? DOWN FOR A LAUGH WITH BRAZEN HUSSY MOUNTS AND WIND-UP DIRTINESS AND CONTRACTUAL EXPLOITATION OF BONY BIG TOES AND FAN CLUBS FILLED WITH SIXTEEN YEAR OLD PARISIAN HESSIAN LANGUAGE VENTRICLES AND OTHER WORKABLE ROUND TREES FILLED WITH YEARLY LEAVES THAT KILL THEMSELVES BEFORE THE WINTER WITHOUT INCIDENT OR CEREMONY.

The wizard has broken sandals in with oven-like precision and precious team spirit that fucks the sacks with innuendos and spreads the turnover on crackers and other outrageous accusations. It’s disgusting the taxi driver’s wage as it humbles itself all the way down the chimney stack. I’m not going to put it out with movements akin to agreeable eyeballs and other gay activities for operatic doors. The average wizard is very serious at the end of the day and won’t even say a few words for the people who are sexually assaulted every day of their cupboard lives. He’s still standing there with shock on his expressions and flicks parachute packs into nervous tension that kicks up a fuss and presses charges.

I would appreciate the muck that came out of your mouth more if you combed your easel with beautiful shaving technique. The wry feasting will break burning ears with fathered and mothered prangs on automobiles that do their best for natural problem-causing. Take the letter to the girdle and shut up before the hatchet job gets a reformation and illumination with ungrateful magic. PULL DOWN THE WIFELY SKIRT AND PREPARE FOR ALL THE CHANGES AND FACTUAL PRUNES THAT WILL CEASE THE VASE BEFORE IT FALLS INTO THE SWIMMING POOL AND POINTS GUNS.

17/03/2014 - GETTING STARTED WITH THE SUN

Getting started with the sun in the palm of your tools, in the raise of the damaged, in lieu of an Oxbridge scholarship. Somebody knew someone was going somewhere with something and somehow without something else. We ain’t leaving this room till we find out the medical implications for the magnolia. The chopping of wood seems to sooth the coverage of usury and slurping slumber of a thousand tiny furry things that thrust their tusks into roulette tables as some sort of fashion statement. I swore off that stuff like wire and leverage of visitation that helps the dreamer get home before his alcoholic impressionism set in. Go hang your dress up for future documentation and grab your furthermore for the purse and do try to tip the stones as you cross them. It hurts to lose me, that’s what I want you to remember in this coldest of momentary lapses in judgement and ownership.

The broom handles are piling up against the capsized manna with blameworthy console and sexy legends that cruise around the by-lines and retread ground. We’re just used to being good at better things and not these trump card ballads of dreary hurt and baldy death. On my mirth I will live with buddy mentality and spruced-up physicality. This thing comes here to test us like the ringing of YES and the fixed point of argument. Kicking and pinning and sedation will tell ‘em the truth with hammers and dismal jester’s running self-control seminars. We can’t know unknowable events without plopping around the chef hats and the straitjackets that are spotted like Dalmatians with flipped switches and subsequent relief. Disappointment floods in with florets of wine flutes and programme directors from THE BIRTHDAY GANG.

Retort. Back-Shift. Go away. Back-Shift. Live. Back-Shift. Float. Four Feet Up. Vengeance. Recipients. Stay tuned. Back-Shift. Broadcast. Wait. Goodnight. Wait again. Speak up. Back-Shift. Goodnight.

The dots are in the vans that ski with utilitarian welcome and wide open arms that do cool things with flickering fingers and flavoursome proverbs that don’t ski, under no obligation whatsoever. As we dare to yearn, as we darn to eat four the sake of young people everywhere, we become like an Almost-God with creampuff pies in ceremonial robes and turkey legs showing faceless responsibility and the secret recordings that are made for blackmail purposes. The sea life will fare thee well provided you create disposition with manifold exposition. That is the legendary placation we make to people who describe it as vacation instead of holiday. The fruity footfall passes with sheriff twinkles and nosegay wipes.

After-effects and aft and beck and call and stern all pile up in a row of shelf-dwellers with irate hand gestures and cruel tandem. Whosoever shall be found to be beside me shall be found guilty of rocking their socks off so why don’t you just pick up that bloody racket and dare to dribble your reams of self-pain and soul sorry-ing. Out of the band, master mate, out of the band and write.

16/03/2014 - SUING FOR DAMAGES

Suing for damages. Leave the house for a week. Hang from harm, harming from hang. Do suppose the chokehold is making bright boys into newsworthy pictograms. Don’t suppose that sailors are skipping through final examinations in case of smallpox. Trying to make a mess for a whole lot more mess in the portholes, tramples the warm into hosiery and avoid the big indictment. Go crazy, going crazy, gone jury. Bail out. Get up to the neck. Being three hours late from the living point of view. Playing denim for swell. Bet on bought bragged numbers and tidal massacres. Scary islands for train wreck glibness in the map charts and numbering number two 2. Trouble is sagacious crabbiness can’t be bells in proper noun sense. Played smart guitars and shiny skirts. Borrow affluence via comedic value and matted smoking of pleasant evenings in professorship. All captains of the freighter. Is a white friend. Are a white countenance. Getting away from being ahead of not knowing caring from creaming and circular drinking for fiendish rottenness. Lose, loss, loose, loosen, lost esoteric beard trouncing. Fiery sigils at every edge of the funeral so that people can see without drinking fatherless wine. As of now, flannelled women are typecast in typecasting other women’s roles without consent. Huts of sad timings and tidings. Stare for magistrates before questions are asked and in usually what order is vapid and airy. Pick up in business that loves the son with regret and adenoids. Glancing blow across the cheap towels, glance again. Hurt with glances in grand juries.

Whatever the hell I want	The time we left the oven on silent
Cerulean transposition	Explanations that didn't stop at arch retorts or rerouted prayer that back-shot and whomped all the way back down the Tube of Time
I know what I mean when you use mnemonics and don't fasten them downwind properly and then they go flapping all over the place until sundry turns up and shouts about his demonic coffee table	Sharpening the pitchfork, gardening the grub worms with a salad spoon, rasping the rectangular motion, creating a new fazed phase for the woman of permanence to order taxis and takeout from in an insane wink of her eye or a flounce of her leg.
She has a department store all to herself for the express purpose of cleaning it in front of homeless suckers or gentleman of valour (she picks her days according to her dress size)	He had a department store all to himself but then the victory turned into numerical sequence and spritzed the creative juices right out of him, causing a significant shift in power (not very good)
They borrow my way forward like they borrow drum sticks	They deposit my lovely rakes in shopping baskets that don't even work out
We really don't want to know where the top shelf is anymore	We have ambitions now that juice our viewpoint and cordon off the splash zone
Time	Can
Time	My Fragrance Right On

15/03/2014 - RELAX THE STEEL FOR WAKING UP, BRO

Relax the steel for waking up, bro. The camouflage leaves me distant to the good faith and interminably ill in gearboxes with levers and hitter reflexes that access someone like you for hammerhead science and dying for what we’ve all done for jungle girls with squeaky voices. You’ve done many terrible things to enforcement of cracked windows but the Hawaiian shirts are launching a very rich shit storm to cowboys and their short-haired ringlets but not their long-burst gunfire. The squinting chest sill will replace me with fucking idealism like it was always in the game for black gloves to be used in dorky rainfall and other workplace scenarios that hurt for little to no reason and leave a solitary rope swinging in the aftershock just for the sake of the children and their chiding. We’ve won against the angles and tiresome acts of big submarine dealings, how little the sisters mattered when they flashed and flattered their guns with gritted teeth and rosy make-up. Kill the shirt like volcanic fluid and handrails that support inhuman sands that blast with orange fire and apparent apartment-sized humanity garbed only in a sweaty grey shirt. Don’t give it your hand or else the black gloves shall clock the gun and let ripples out of the ammunition bag.

 

...ALLOW THE MAGE, THE NORMAL AGE, HIS MOTHER’S BEST CARDIGAN, THE PETTICOAT OF THE CENTURY, THE ARMCHAIR OF ARMISTICE, THE BULLET CHILD, THE SHORTS THAT JUST WOULDN’T QUIT, THE SHOES THAT JUST WOULDN’T LOOSEN, THE BUILDINGS THAT WERE TOLD TO KEEP A WATCHUFL EYE OUT, THE ZIPLINE, THE TARZAN MOMENT WITH THE WOMAN WHO WOULD BE JANE, THE LOG IN LOGARITHMS AND THE FOLIAGE THAT SURROUNDS IT ALL AND TOUCHES YOUR BACK AND OUR BACK AS WE SETTLE DOWN FOR A PICNIC IN PURSUIT OF AN ANGRY PRIMARY TARGET. IT WOULDN’T BE LONG NOW, ALL THIS SUFFICIENTLY REPRESENTED WITH EASY KICK BACKS IN LINE FOR THOSE WHO WAIT...

 

The trees are yellow, the book cover is of a woman who had nothing to do with the hiring and firing of a gun-farming business. The pipes that wasted speed junkies treat us like things without conceptual retroactivity  Join up and let go of the eternal US that inseminates flat tops into the future of fashion trends. The yard is simply while we all make it out to be some sort of grand overlapping of material and water trying to say things with barrels and calling the woman in particular out if it hasn’t admitted that it’s gay and weaponised.

 

Fall with water and nobody gets much. Wrangle with water and the taste is in the tune but please don’t let this conversation, this transaction of self-incitement go to your head. The lid on the toilet has a hair cut and the hostess who usually organises and stratifies parties cannot see past the crags in the moon. The cargo is jettisoned but the pilot doesn’t like to be able-bodied anymore. He’s been trying on new hats for dreary days on end.

14/03/2014 - THIS IS NO ORDINARY MILLIONAIRE

            This is no ordinary millionaire, this is a millionaire with a bolt of lightning in his hair that accelerates him into format painting. They say such a millionaire might burn through the stratosphere with car-like fixes and pacific retribution, training up the sergeant class all over again with the pop and glimmer of an energy-efficient light bulb. They say you can get a dentist clean feeling for the harmless acting that manages your placidity at seeing such a primary event take place. They tell me to stop watching for free and to pick up laundered money with my pointy little fingers and sweaty palms caused by porn slappers.

            Be silly, be full of remorse, be fine, be on a good side of sober, be aboard a bus headed to the True Continent, be a retro cleaner, be a hyperactive child, be ebullient, be a teacher of pole tricks, be a prostrate blonde, be a clamp of legs, be whatever you slink to be. Just pull the arm speed above the national average and make your time take bullions of mental exhaustion and frightening thoughts that can't say just how hard it is to be a figure of starvation with straight legs and harmless brows. Is it important to keep the work away from the lounging around of other people? Wearing comfy laps will burst your retention for hourly dissents from the peasant class. I like just chilling out, you know what I mean, I appreciate the nothingness of strippers and take away that which is so much on.

            The good thing about going is away is that tester's can't enter the clubs with their big questions and Vienna lists. The futuristic art makes the universe provide the fully-believed thought process with attitude running extra. There's a lot to be catching up on. You're all I need to see right now, mostly because the records and reports are plastered all across your cheekbones and shaking lightly to prove visibility. Today I'm in a pig farm and tomorrow I'll be a stringent annual assessment towards a good standard with red tractor responsibilities. The mesh and mash makes us admirals, that is the exact nature of the natural provider. Dress fantastic to conquer your cravings and eat coconut shavings, pick up the resonant points and violated payment issues. Dancing over the mountain makes us a unified church, dabbling on the surface changes our carriage design.

• ·         Heart's desire is a hearty breakfast meat. It trounces all other forms of 39-year-old dinner dishes and doesn't even require the use of a spatula. You flip the decent thing with your hands then you pat it back down as it arrives at the floor. The beat is munificent.
• ·         Astrologically speaking, they say a lot about the drainage of the pipes in Durham.

1. 1.      Who really counts to fifty anymore?
2. 2.      The child in the orange shirt has sweetener in her pocket.
3. 3.      The police force.
4. 4.      Be as you tell yourself to be and don't drive on it.

13/03/2014 - YOU BRING IT BACK AND YOU'RE SCREWED

You bring it back and you’re screwed, you unwind it and you’re screwed. You tick off the boxes, you just tick off all those flaming boxes and the Swedes will crush your ticket toting with vehement retorts. These people aren’t afraid of your assets, they have no translation for the thingies and you automatically lose. It hurts to be a mountaineer in this part of the world, you’re always afraid of the receiver and its connection to the swordplay overseas. They tell me it’s the sort of thing you just can’t back away from, you have to bask in it with all remote controls in attendance and a few action figures as added spices. The trouble with the twist is that there is no desire to print more on it. They say things that one can hardly believe and you’re lead out of the universal skin to strut about with hippy mood-altering going on and suits being tailor-made just for the state of mind you’ll inevitably enter. The man with the door knocker is always a harsh judge of women in high heels.

The thousand and one comforts I contort into my lunchbox aren’t too serviceable at this time in the year and that’s because the upgrade patch has decided to stop tightening its whiney corners because we’re always replicating the intention with our mouths and eyebrows. These chaps, these electronic pest chaps are hiding the damn receivers, plotting them into the earth all around us to see how we like it. They don’t even rise, they just tamper and cluck the sides of their nonexistent cheeks. Sometimes we all just wish they would grow-up and leave the planet behind before the pipes sprout out and all the way down to the feminist novel section. Goodness knows what will happen to God down there, he might get singed with zingers and testimonies. JDJ – JUST DON’T JUDGE – that’s how one of these titles are printed and the series keeps just getting better at handling its seriously as it goes along. There’s an umpteenth book in the works but no-one gets to read this one, it’s out of print ahead of its time. It’s end-stopped and you won’t like it.

The thing is that boots are always doing what they can to introduce the narrators and to integrate them back into the folds of war. The hardware’s changed but the will is essentially the same so the change shouldn’t be took as unconquerable at all. The computer AI is strumming with soundless throws and balanced chords. Time to stray away from goodbye with a harmony. You’ll be tapping your OKs and diphthongs in no time, no space at all. The whirls in her hair and the join in her nose will bristle and fire up the rafters with so much homogeny that we just can’t betray. It would be awfully cold to do so and we’ve left the kettle on standby anyway. The history walk and the pipe go together like strobe lighting and the flexing of spoons into palpable matter.

12/03/2014 - THE FILMMAKER BECAME THE WHALE HUNTER

The filmmaker became the whale hunter through black magic and original universal thought. It was stunning. Each of the elements were capped off and learning to talk in their respective genres in order to run away with studios and returns and different swim builds of sequels. The monster movie creator became a big hit and on its own terms. In the mean time the old dark house became mischievous in its effects and dove to be crazy and invisible. This is a souvenir and how do you like that, you headless, candlelit morons! This is delightfully liked per generation with big money projects and generations of oodles of film historians who dare to pose the question where the whale even came into it and how the reel became a harpoon and how it was employed. There was a feel to the action that left the transaction a warning to the big boys and girls who propose their screenplays and diddly squat. These are the suggestions: mention this, betroth little people in glass bottles, marry the poets, either the fever and be greatly contentious. Can you have conceive of cadavers with money and elaborate fire and let-out sexual favours that create umpires from music and faster films from earlier flicks. The sequence is a brief glimpse of most of the vicarage that changes sporadically with boring full-blown intimacy. There have been developments that can articulate in blind speech and lonely aches of the bally shadow. Speech was essential to the bride. Take away from the original portrayal and you can’t go wrong with her.

The harpoon shatters the gruelling make-up design, the thin layer of mullet that separates whale from ocean. It burns from either direction and pops up like cartoonist thoughts and fuller facial scarring that makes great clamps out of lattices and thyme without the necessary catalyst of heated moments. The lesser physical ordeal is padded behind the breast of the filmmaker as he steers the ship into the forehead of the mighty beast in hopes that the slanted smoke might picture the tea cups in unearthly skin tones. This does not do any wearer any justice, auto chromatic and dead white as he is. The pretty lights are kept on in absolute masterpiece of the attractive cars that crisps the wire cage on the cranium. How the halls are made beautiful by wacky hairstyles. I would be a crotchety old guy if I weren’t here. I would become a hard knuckle on a surgical glove as it goes in for the kill and says hello. She took the longest time to salvage the filmmaker from the wreckage of his ship in the hopes that he would have his own way of doing in the stake and then doing away with it entirely. The swans come up and feed them with hisses and incorporate English and American ingénues into the mise on scene. Oh, the warmth of memories borrowed in Machiavellian mouthpieces. Here is the lovely scent of an impressive bleed out.