05/03/2014 - BASED ON THIS SET UP

Based on this set up the broadcast is filled with fairy dairy reboots and blinking, bilking lights that dictate what is and what isn’t. Come alive with a woman’s voice, come around the ping of pink to spank the protective services into secure public school education or even wire-cutting insurrection. I can only listen to myself in a pool, in a well, in a limitation to the world of electronics and beautiful mantra tundra impermanence. I wish all the software could be free for the lustful night to wrap with numbers and knuckles and twenty two other versions of sixteen digit numbers. It’s all commonality in the ocean disparate from the band camp that clutches on and keeps on coming with silly straw in its pockets. All creatures of proverb know of the sandwiches and the space between sandwiches that damn the monarchy and shudder to think of the shuttlecrafts that don’t dilate eighteen inches to let out enough steam or Tex-Mex leftovers. Today we did neutrality a favour with a flick of a bitter protester in the snow and the hardcore pornography. The dreams they make are overtly shallow and dressed up with frilly bits of paper and tissue and black limestone chipped away down to the paint. All the grey masochists have their packets of tissues ready for small transactions and professional hand dryers that demand laddies with sweet gherkins and pouting watch marks. They tell me that you’ve seen more than enough of this world, that the battles are so terrifying that you can’t stand to stand up for the things anymore, even with a hoverboard pressed against your back in sexual preclusion. The dancing is beautiful and brings tears straight to the eyes like fax machines and other outdated, outmoded concepts from yesteryear and all of its huggable predecessors. The big man in orange has a list in case you need to know how many references to pack into a single monument engraving, he packs his coat with packing peanuts and concert pianists who can’t even turn their own smelly pages for their own smackhead selves. He’s back to lay claim to the encouragement according to echoes and trickles of better battlements and cunning stratagems. Have faith with movement and scatological scape-goating. You are an inspector of everything transformative and little in the fright department. Never kick the dog in case he’s a pup with ambition, unpronounceable and yet demountable. Prepare for the telling and retelling and the heels and the shills and the cetacean power potions with fruity sideburns. Concentrate the truth of revolutionary redaction and say bravo to the snake in the grass as he’s led up the devilish tower. There is work we have to do and the little boys are stating their case with respectable accountability and tiresome tirelessness. Most often we run out of petrol before we even get to this place this far out in the desert. Good afternoon, yon perfectionist, you’re Daedelus with skates on. Say death now, say death again.