31/05/2014 - LOST ON A VIKING LONGSHIP

Lost on a Viking longship, as seen in the future. The bits and bites of critics are mere analysis of elementary comments with delusions of permanency. Deliberate quality for the caveat requires two-ply focus and a lot of extra upside. Take 2. Bonehead decision. Executives configure. Speciality controls for numerous generations. Cry out and listen to the fizzle of air as it falls down around you in a crown formation. The two plumbers are adapting to a life without loneliness, a time best spent together in a millionaire’s toilet. Legal battles ensue in a different future entirely. Like fishing for carp allegedly.

How many of the 23 episodes have you seen, as linked in the description? That’s a push towards kung fu raps with definite love and undefined, unrefined sexuality on a boat missing its many sails. It’s just a matter of time before scraps expropriate themselves into a Montreal conman. That kind of stupidity seems really contrived so get it off the table before the conman shows up and laughs at your idea of a hustler, what is essentially a mere hustler. Don’t look so green around the gills, crime pays through the teeth and leaves behind a fashionable topknot or so I’ve shown you through my years of silent weeding.

This is a column you need to climb sporadically and without question. Your trachea is broken and it cannot be redeemed unfortunately for you and your girlfriend and her part-time pet boyfriend. She’s a movie star, what can you say? Well, you actually can’t saying anything except ‘nah’ or ‘hemp’ which is a shame for careers away from rope walking or rope binding. Ask a lot of questions like I’ve found the lovers in my life tend to do and pizza gets thrown around the shop until someone takes a serious stand at politics in this unredeemed region. Turnover shall occur and no doubt with my ties to the Russian mobs. Transformation after transformation, meek into mild and then into something more cold and terrific in bed.

Let’s all read off the ceiling. Let’s all type out a machine code that the machine cannot process or decipher or know why anyone would even care to make it. English isn’t the only language worth contradicting so why not spread out your linguistics into hateful idioms of the soul. Your mother and her sister have told everyone in this community that that’s the kind of shit you go in for, that your shitty star sign involves tampered evidence and an impounded flat-screen television for as long as you can keep hooks on it. Now we’re at nowt, good for owt but nowt. Ready to redeem the language so notice it already. Were they stuck at 7, all the rest? Were they all waiting in the touch toilets, crouching against the bowl due to sickness and irradiated chemotherapy? That’s just inexplicable, why anyone would even say that with dart-like potency. Ask for the record and see what’s on the rattle, you not me.

30/05/2014 - THE CHANCE TO WIN

THE CHANCE TO WIN MAKES ME INTOLERABLY AFRAID TO CHILL THE DEAD AND FEEL THEIR TWISTED SOUP RUNNING THROUGH THEIR TWISTED FINGERS. HOOK BONES ARE WAITING IN THE FLOATING AND YEARNING WON'T DO ANY OF US ANY GOOD, NOT WHILE THE LIARS ARE THE CAVALRY WITHOUT SICK BREATH ON HEATHES. I HEAR THAT YOU BECAME A DIRECT DESCENDANT OF THE CROSS THAT CHOKED CHRIST INTO A FILTHY VERSION OF HIS BROTHER'S FIST, ALL ALONG THE ARCH OF HIS HISTORICAL THRONE. MY BUDDY IS ON FIRE BECAUSE HE HAS BEEN DOUSED IN KINDLING AND VOLATILE ELECTRICITY. I THINK MY GLOVES WERE BEING WEIGHED HERE AT SOME POINT, AFTER I LOST THEM TO GLOW IN HEAVEN FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES WITH THE REST OF THE BELLIGERENT AND STALWART. THAT WHITE LIGHT MELTED THE CONSEQUALISM IN MY BACK POCKET LEAVING ME WITH NOTHING WORTHY OF LOSING OR NOTE. IT HURT.

            REACHING FOR RULERS AND LENGTHENING MEASURING TAPE THAT DRAINS ITSELF IN SMOKING BLOOD AND RECKLESS TOOTHSOME DIE-CASTING. I THINK MY MODELLING CAREER HAS HIT A SHUTTLECOCK TEMPORARILY TO THE EXPENSE OF YOUR COMPASSION AND ESCAPOLOGIST APOLOGIST NIMCOMPOOP SIGHING. THESE THINGS NEVER QUITE END AS SHARDED OR AS CONVENIENTLY AS PROMISED IN THE ADVERTS, THE LINES GET BLURRY AS YOU MEASURE THEM IN TOMATO GROVES. THE CELERY GROWS ITSELF IN BOTANICAL GARDENS TO THE TUNE OF A THOUSAND MINI COOPERS EXPANDING ON EXPERIENCED WORK EXPERIENCE OFFICERS DOING THE ROUNDS AROUND VARIOUS GARAGES AND LIBRARIES IN CASE THOSE SONS OF BITCHES FORGET THEIR FAITH OR DROP THEIR COIN PURSES. JOIN THE ARMY, THAT'S THEIR SLOGAN BECAUSE IT SAVES ON TOKENS AND OBLIGATORY CIGARETTE SMOKE. BIRDS OF DOOM, GLIMMERS OF SQUARES IN DISAPPOINTING LAND. A TALL HANDSOME WOMAN WHO MOSTLY PLAYS BRIDGE AND SARDINES BECAUSE ETERNITY IS REALLY A RATHER LONG CASE OF SHRINKING, WILL SHRINK DOWN TO WHISPER IN COATS AND SOME SMOKING JACKETS.

            DINNER IS SERVED IN RENTAL CARS BECAUSE THE COST OF SELF-RESPECT HAS RECENTLY BEEN BARRICADED IN THE SLUMS. STACKS OF GREEN WOOFS AND WOOFERS AND WOLVES IN SHEPHERDS' CLOTHING HAVE STRIDENTLY SLINKED OUT TO THE TUNE OF A TINNY PIANO CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO LARGE VOLUMES ON SWEATY BIOLOGY AND TEENAGE MISFORTUNE AS IT HAPPENS OR HAPPENED IN THE DAILY GRUNT AGE. THEY REALLY WOULD APPRECIATE YOU, THEY REALLY WOULD HAVE HAD YOU BOTHERED TO EXIST AT THAT POINT OF THE NIGHTMARE BUT THEN YOU AIN'T WANTING FOR WHAT YOU SEEM TO BE. YOU JUST WANT TO TURN UP THE TEMPO OF BOOZING IN THIS MICROSCOPIC CATASTROPHE ROOM. BUT AT LEAST THEY'RE PLAYING YOUR SONG IN A SALOON SOMEWHERE, AT LEAST THE VOUCHERS WILL MAKE IT ALL WORTHWHILE AND AT LEAST THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRIES CAN BE PACKED IN A KITTEN'S FATTY SAC. JAZZ AS IT OCCURS IN THE NATURAL HABITAT OF A SMOKER.

And I, I just can't get past the judgement, can't avoid the burglary of my ideals by some bugger from Ipswich with his electrician's degrees and his limp wrist that only blocks him out when he breaks into Rock 'n' Roll

29/05/2014 - ROBUST BACKS

Robust backs press against the teenage superpower for the sake of an hourly themed party. They’ve got the bad guys on the run without much inhibition or cutesy Japanese Belgians jangling along behind them. You’ve been beaten by worse teams with fiercer technology and worked-out plausibility. Ask and you shall hear guitar strings being electrified for bony fingers that rarely meet anything straight, let alone troubled. Seagulls are on the attack for shark bait 1-2-3 for those who are looking for more than a look in a fleeting bus stop.

                        Dude says: everyone go home before the mayor asks about his car’s windshield and shard-resistant fairness. Arms tend to be too stubby and too fixed for the dark side of surprising siding with the apt cause in need of lorry retraction. This is a desert cactus. That is a machine gun covered by shade. My comedy comes through reading about humour and application of Earthly centimetres. Complete blackness in the pitch shift. Sonic writing and a new moon. You can see in the ambiance in the starry blue: that’s really interested in the interesting.

I know that the kangaroo is topped by interesting gyroscope technology in wyvern standing. I’ll finish this with big sensations and fragrant final bosses with whole shit and half antennae. The green grass grows with just one of those things man, Dude says. He likes breakables and some issues of a particular newspaper filled with additional articles and many ways to dynamism for schizophrenic falling off. Here I come, here I come. Crumbs or patience. Or Zen even. Did you just expect the bucking to return you to the platform with both legs intact and prostate doing rings around the retirement plan? Expand on your thought process.

                                                                                    This is infuriating, Dude says, I hope this ruins your comeback tour with gargantuan tricks and carnival sell-outs. I’m sorry to H-I-J-K-L and sometimes M with analysis of great monitors. You’re a mob boss with a canopy of put upon talk show hosts. She’s too much for an advocate like me, troopers without trial or error or overthrown boredom walruses.

                                                                                                                        CBS would cruise around with Hanover Crime Syndicates from the hook on the left. Another crushing HBO rejection, another departmental bathtub for rich folk and their mermaid obtrusions; all these things going around and around in the whirly tube of my sockets. As the print copies out of swing delegation the umbrella corporations will channel the variations of king’s men as well as the brightness of the generic screen that has become the very essence of a fool’s existence. A fool’s existence is always foolish, says Dude, but not always foolscap. These are rich and deserving words for somebody and, when we find her, she’ll be showered with gifts from the nozzle to the hindrance of a floor we’ve set out for such precious keyboard junkies. Linger around the chief of limitless xenophobia and you’ll hear his chime, like a black countdown on a chardonnay bottle. Neck due for reconnection.

28/05/2014 - ONLY THREE, I'M SURE

Some facts to get you started:

 

• Starry scars are not a done thing on knotty nights.
• The placenta is an attempt to burn away excess tissue.
• Reductionism always ends in tempestuous affairs of mind and automobile.

 

Only three, I’m sure, but I know that you’ll get along fine without all the sarcasm and the great minds thinking alike because who really needs that shit staring at you from the front end tip of your remote control? Type as long as you’re listening to royal delays of appointed order and biting down really is beyond the press release, keep your mind within the vlog details.

 

Upon release, the cabana will fill up with cops and robbers enlisted with the specific heist details of counting to three and then making in-game scores with official dice words. The residents are scheduling survival horror for sometime this summer because drip dry ballots lack the polish we set out to create. Preorder now and get a fighting chance at throwing up straight into the brown sack bag. Traditionally the memorial patterning would cool down casinos in big lizard blood, all blended in a blender to make ten million squishes happen worldwide. This proves that great hemp will imagine leagues of ocean and disco metallurgy playing back and forth in driftwood breaks. Say goodbye and close your curtains, draw them into drapes and lose the bamboo altogether now. Fiascos of neckties aren’t usually well received but you’ve managed it somehow with your shitting function and silent movie racial policies. Cowboys, the lot of you, absolute cowboys of government with your rodeos and spatulas filled with baked beans, also running down the sides with redder sauce. Franchises don’t really stop when you ask them to, they go on and on and along with ex-lovers in sailboats to rectify past transgressions in the dot matrix printer while stocks last.

 

Longing for death is dreary so that’s why we free up our thought time with throwing away toadstools and having madcap mathematical battles, quick draw with saddlebags filled with equilateral triangles and isosceles depending on the length of the shooter’s teeth. Keep them in your back pocket whilst dealing with us in the big games, we’ll make all players pay and all payers play. Something wicked every night while the battery shows its leg, all putrid and spiced up with coriander and other cornucopias of bruises. The little Geordie and his best Scottish accent are scrapping this colour-coordinated scheme for fucking cannabis plantations. Somebody should ought to allow his envelope to be stamped and trampled on by a fleet of angry elephants with their factors straight and trunks even straighter. I don’t want to scarcely think about it, I want it to occupy my time in an egregious way. I’m on set most of the day and this is the thirst I get, orchestrating papal routes with a big left index finger and an arm for the right? Don’t be erudite, do be erroneous. Specious species, the lot of ‘em.

27/05/2014 - CLOTHING THE THUMB

Clothing the thumb with tickers and dangerously bad jokes about secret agents. Reading creases with freezes. Reinforcement as per individuality. Sponsorship. Heading our way with experimental kidding. Activation of poor actors at poor Armageddon. Over enthusiasm. Smash to please. Elite sapphires. Saviour vaults like peaceful readiness. Toasted crumpets. Foundling, dwindling, keeping it cool like sister. Who could really say with thundering floor management?

 

Now then. To the matter at hand. I really wouldn’t mind gadgetry to break into all the vaults like they were my own personal trophy room filmed with manic teeth and the other ways in. The kids are younger than getting, finer than jetpacks. We’re all enjoying the ride with our grown breasts and necklace adornments.  All of  your weapons, all of my hearing aids. This is the English dog, the very English dog with the snub-nosed tail and the spyhunter glasses that pretend they’re cogs with back stories and various forms of back ache. Share and be shared, bracelet watchers in the water. These goons are in the police force but only as far as the accidental prototype. It all goes haywire and that keeps me one step out of listened time. My father spent his entire life trying to part the furniture with solutions and golden gone. Everything I ever cared about is given more to more daily, things will be different in a desperate version of guesswork. Every time you come back with evil in your cheeks that wish on bloody bones for Italian cuisine usage. The time vortex is opening and all Glaswegian accents will fall away from step-kids. You’re too             late anyway.

 

Everyone in the world let go of the watch so you can let go of the watch and then watch as you let go when you really should be going and watching yourself go at the exact same time. I don’t need hammer hands or videogame panels, I just need a drip of Melissa Thank, she can’t bring back minors but she can help me create my own with hasty storytelling and narration that borders on sloppy footfall. Wait for it and ask for danger as it rights and and corrects with implicated living meat. I’m going to listen, spend my time listening with gems in my hand and sexy but ultimately useless former child actors. I was so worried to hear about you just being yourself. Stop nothing to get hard time, stop at literally nothing with clocked punts. How do you find that, father? Cooler than being cold in the age of heroism?

 

So show the sewn so-and-so and slow the stowing of soapy so-called snow. We are back on the clock. We are embracing all the time in the world of recruitment of identifying filters for shit for brains pointing and prodding for prodigies only. The shrink ray, the shrink ray turned towards the minute hand and now we are all so-called and somewhatearly. Only monsters alleviate the cup size, only men remark on the beautiful significance of singing voice and Mexican flaming.

26/05/2014 - THE FACT IS YOU NEVER STOP BEING DRACULA

The fact is you never stop being Dracula. That’s the nub of the matter, the dirty little secret as locked within the heart of most pornographic films of that nature, of that subject matter. No amount of sequential throbbing will change the state of your teeth, you’ll never once see the glisten go away or the yellow enamel take over because fictional myth and all its hermetic structure will just not allow it. Something to do with Giant Vampires and the causeways they build by dropping a few splashes of buffered blood. Everybody leans on the training mats as if children weren’t as ebullient as they should be, according to the scripture of Nought to Zero. I doubt that a serf will have read it, any of your serfs that is. The moment’s passed and the sex has been had.

You put spines out of places, out of sweaty back plastic caverns are struck by time in its mouldy bottle of vinegar, formerly fingers. Cut out the sound like a former schoolboy turned spy, just let it die away into folded concertina petals. The bopping goes along with the choreography, the hip flask an extra accessory for the rich and retired. Honey makes me restless and unkind towards weightless environments filled with encephalitis and gangrene. When I was down, she was there from the start nosing that nobody from your past and my conjoined twin’s present. She’s going to break hearts like a limp wrist on a Sunday morning. I do the breaking around these premises. Whatever you do, stay alert and askance before the lady of the house notices the emblem that you wear around your chest and neck and vest. She’ll give you all from her box of boring breaded nuggets. Roderick has no part in this, just Neil and his motley crew of All-hearts.

Excuse me with cold consideration, shape it into a stake and whittle off the tough bits with your unholy toothy pegs. Presenting the end of today isn't quite as stirring as establishing that tomorrow will never come and that yesterday is merely figurative. The chimes of Transylvania are burrowing into your immortal soles, rising up through your shaky anklebones to become one with the entire mechanism that is your greasy, groaning body. So much white corrective fluid in the space between your nipples, the triangle with your chin. It's not particularly artistic, just a plain actor's role as a busybody with his first name and lazy eye. Romance does enough to make you float around like a demon from hell, it sends you on errands with broken bicycles and tidies away all compartmentalised fishing simulators that might show your essence like a glow stick in a meadow.

It's not really about business, being Dracula, it's about knowing where to cut off relations without offending too many people. Beauty doesn't like to be spurned or scorned or slapped in the tickle spots; it just wants to be wrinkled by a quick pat down on the back of some loser's bus.

25/05/2014 - WHAT A DESOLATE PLANET

What a desolate planet this is. I’m malfunctioning in terms of the alien lingo, the local language with all its hooded colloquialisms and she wasn’t even here before me. They said there would be a statue of her somewhere around the dustbowl but all I see are smaller effigies that hinder my walkway as if the electricity wasn’t doing a good enough job already. The twitterings of aristocracy are making mischief around my upper dorsal but none of the robots are willing to help me, not even the service droid with the two-ton forehead. It’s good to think of her as being here.

            I notice that this is the renovated version of the arthropod, that the dank and musty glandular fever has turned out all copper shiny whilst we were asleep in our own doom, wrapped up in the leaves and feathers of a great woman’s meltdown. She couldn’t have melted down here, she was too proud and too tall to break herself in such wimpy grass. I’ve always taken her for a tundra person, a protestor of farmers and being gay uncles without the reminders of pop and fizzle. It’s my moisture binary, my topic of second language conversation. Take these two over to the conversion charge and beep motivation. What about that one? Third-class condition and here he comes. Don’t you forget to stick your neck out and gibber. Thank the maker with bad taste and big contamination.

            She teleports the calling to counterpart scoring with rebellious services and interpretative jamming. I’m merely a malfunction following her voyage via recordings and trustworthy behaviour with residential dune buggies. Let’s play back the restraining bolt and rusty innards that she fought and navigated through, reconsider hurt a while with only some memory erasure. I knew her father, I met him because I welcomed his sister, her aunt into a narked off harvest festival. I’ll be able to hire a few more years in the seasonal hotel, tracking her habits to make up for the golden solipsism.

            Under no circumstances was I under no obligation, I have to hide back behind the vehicles and missionaries that appear to operate them and then disappear to lodge complaints about worrying shutdowns. We’ll get it for excelsior, we’ll call out for leeks and bloody boils. I think there’ll be hell to pay from her lawyers, the ones that still reside on this plain anyway, and I will have to argue a shambles of a case. We’ll have no more of this castration business, none of the blather to buckle up she and I. We’re two separate entities and our out and out combat will echo down the ages with a rapture of combustion engines ploughing through comestibles like dash fire or white-haired flambé. Come here, my little friend, my love, my busy lady all in one place. Travel heavy and I shall catch up with you before the hermits and we won’t have to deal with all that property business. I can’t even remember your name anymore.

24/05/2014 - ASIDE FROM THE HUGS

Aside from hugs, the lectern doesn't like physical touching so please don't fizzle or pop. If you feel that shit coming down on, you do it at the plinth. I want a divorce. The enablers are all decorative vegetables in the church, slung across the pews and raining down bath materials as if they were hazardous to someone without his will and testament in order, revved up and pushing 50 down a one-way street. It tastes nice, this stock; it sticks in the mouth and reverently refers to my verbose gums. Meanwhile the rest of me glistens and glints away.

            What is everybody? Where does it constitute? How does it simmer? In an egg cup? With soldiers? One night. One night with egg-fried rice. It's not an unusual question on a quest like this, at your request I might add. It's good to lack something, still at the temperature it needs to be at. Spill the stains and you don't know what from what or when from Wendigo. It's a tragedy, it's a shame. The rain blows and the sun whistles down and nothing is certain aside from petal blossom on the sphinx's good eye. I'm not quite ready to hallo angels, I don't have the correct command function let alone the adaptable circuitry. I'm maleficent, strung up by the wings of destiny. Harp plays softly, precious tunes to a familiar interlude. We're not far off now, are we? Six minutes. Right. You dry and I'll wash the smaller parts into dust.

            There once was a port where you could picture yourself with loved ones past but they closed it off due to refurbishment which was basically coded language for rainy day destitution. Schoolboys still arrive from overseas to the sound of disappointed wailings in the knoll. It stops and starts with its grassiness, keyed into the configuration of mankind's unnatural light sequence. Aardvarks and such like live in the pines now, their tongues reaching out towards hoarded backs, all turned and splashed with red paint. Our correspondents told us it was red paint but dye is still a distinct possibility.

            Half an hour later you'll be on all fours and wondering why your modesty is showing, why it's been shown to all candidates in last week's grand examination. They got it together in case you were to bare all at some point outside the privacy of your foundation but, don't worry, I cut it off just before the knees. You go that far south and nobody trusts you anymore, nobody will take their clientele or cardsharps to your office for the foreseeable future. They've quantified the tone of your skin, the exact tone and the results will be posted online the next time you take a shower. There won't be any cameras in there, any streaming aside from the water cascading down your long, prominent nose and the freckles making off with your cheeks.

            I make a mean argument, slay those germy jerks all the way round their briefing systems. We're causing all kinds of hassle, backhand.

23/05/2014 - THE LAUGHTER COMES AT ME

            The laughter comes at me down a long corridor that smells of citrus and, as it does, I realise for the first time just how lucky I am not to be a cartoon dog anymore. The clapping is rapture and the month is late October but only between my ears because the pressure is just so and to have it exerted anywhere else on my person would only serve to irritate the hell balls out of me. Rewind the clocks from the parties, the ones you received as a parting gift from that colleague in the Shrove jumper, and you'll hear the ticking go on forever in a way that isn't quite ticking but still remains within that comfortable definition.

            These hands are my children, your fingers are my cherubs and the joining of our palms is like a winter greeting during a summertime storm. You look at that and see the clatter of switches being pulled and tugboats being set off into patches of ice and hard-up cashier jobs that supermarkets recruit to feed their abasement. Then again the sweets might lift your spirits by lowering your traditions into a lovely well filled with Irish cream and dissenter screams that don't intend to chime or rhyme as one while the rest of us look into the psychology of the matter. There is nothing to see here except the great actor stepping down from the forgettable roles that are offered to him in his greying years. I am that actor and everybody wants to give me a handjob whilst pressing the handle against the small of my back. I do the dance and everything just to please them in their bloodbath.

            Today I discovered just how immune the exits are around this place, how timely your arrival turned out to be to the pockets of dissenters. It's almost like robbery if it weren't for all the daylight and cherry beams from the stained glass. I only came to see why there are still so many people and you found me among the men and the children of men and the rest that are monkeys and apes and living things with interesting hair distribution. The keys are dropped in the bowl and my crimp is acting up, fucking around with my charisma. Or is my charisma doing all the fucking around? It's a toadstool really, an angry little thing that pops air freshener smells when I'm not looking into flicker sloths on the Main Channel.

            Neil and Jean and Erasmus and myself all went out to try out for the alien taskforce but we didn't get there in the end, we stopped by a casino in some dustbowl city for the good of the kiddies that would inevitably die on our sleepy-eye watch. The glam rock music was a faint whisper among the hushed voices of hotel concierges and men flinging diamonds at traveller's cheques because they are magicians and that kind of touch and twirl is close-up magic. These men just live to call me 'dummy'.

22/05/2014 - SAY IT AT THE BONFIRE

            Say it at the bonfire, speak in hot potatoes while the soft-handed blister and tussle with each other over the lotion and animal husbandry duties. I don't know much about silhouettes but if you go for that woman's then you're as good as dead, son, the party don't stop just for her novocaine. Dudes eat a load of religious stamps  in the wharf and blanket out the catalogue containing no-man's glamour spray. Where the fuck does one even level up in this olde time setting? That loose invention hasn't got any instructions on the side or even in the tiny manual that dangles on a rope at the side. Put it wherever you hope to be British and it's supposed to light up like a nightclub after an hour of slicing and dicing and giving up ink in Rotterdam. If you do die, if you should, then let it be dabbling in dead spots filled with CVs and pirates who would take these dossiers of vital information for nefarious ends. That tall one likes to trick people with his soggy shirt and embarrassing lay. Rather than running around, find all the relevant items and cram them straight into your sports-loving mouth with half of your stair-like teeth protected by a guard. You're a clamp, a flask and a few loose evening tiles landing in a fish bowl to the marching bat of Holy Shit troops.

            Since when did this turn out turn to shit and turn, turn, turn again? Was it the movement of an inspector of screen options and workaday ennui? Try to kill somebody, just load-up the ambush and slaughter a fat neck because the guys are really kind of easy and not worth losing your lunch over, even if that sort of stuff turns them on. Turns, turns, turns like a likelihood. Get up at the attack of the curve, raise the dentures and let the monster see in the dark for his Happy Family game. Something created will still hurt with hits and once every thousand years. The rest come in bites at the good play, thus evening the odds. Stay tuned amongst yourself, dodging bullets and general rainfall in the muddy terrain. Copy the boxes, tick them as they come with graining pens and ferryman signatures. The real reason I stress this is because I'm going home to announce a wild and illustrious plan for queer culture. Hint: it'll involve unprecedented access to virtual reality.

            Hilarity hedges its bets on clarity of focus and the voyeurism that many appeal after for the sake of making brains and ears alike bleed varicose fluid for a yard and then a kilometre until all we're left with are the deserted and complicated by scarves and ovular darts tournaments that just keep going around and underneath and around and loop-de-loop and other big deals for the Big Deal corporation that sit in their lonely towers in the hopes that someone new and fresh and only peripheral will bring books and speak in garden lingo.

21/05/2014 - COAT HANGER GROTESQUE

            Coat hanger grotesque, picking it out of the handkerchief for the sake of precision and typical science. Atypical science isn't really worth checking out or so they say, traps and buttons and triggers for them both. Alternative comedy movements destroyed the target thing and created honking great breasts that augment public opinion for the Liberal Democrats. I'm bored by the simplicity of the game, the authentic lines and endless excuses for being so hazy and blackguard. The greater sign is rematch, it heals my drain for a lot of fish to pass through it. The siblings are all the better for asking about the king of monsters and its political leanings. The giant radioactive tennis court formalises floral dressing with defeat like an adjutant. A few days later, there was improvement, not significant just implied through cannibalism and the build-up of acting.

            You're really invested, putting everything on the line for shock and awe that tag along with Lank Gods that spend their midnight hour making clever nods and remembering times past, namely 1954. The cover-up evens out the eating competition, it streamlines the pathetic slimming of newspaper clippings. I never understood that art directory or its frequenters with their Neanderthal knuckles and aircraft openings. The wives get axed while the meetings begin with arthritis and end with nuclear power. Two different films, both of which are from 1954. You are so wrong about that, by the way and I don't care what you're currently going through; it has no bearing on the phenomenal cock-up you're about to let out. Put your conk back inside and listen for the aftermath, there's plenty more smells to be genuinely curt with. It feels like twenty minutes of panning around various French cameras. Spoilers should be upgraded as per New York Settlement Standard Application Routing. Check that every narrow passage has been blocked up.

            That's what I'm looking for. That. That opposite to the positivity, that caricature of gigantic sharp-suited businesswomen, that cavalcade of transgender coins. I'm sorry about the suggestibility and the rest of the fucking voice that doesn't belong to my mulling.

            Steam through the air and flip me over continuously. You'll get your sacrifice for walking away, you'll get your cape over your eyes and a roster to give a reason where there traditionally wouldn't be a reason.

            Attack the innocents just as they're starting to cheer up. Animals root for you because you give a shit and that's the perfect time to strike and without remorse or chivalry. Give.

            This first fist of mine fits pretty intensely because the Drowning City has its own shell for the establishing shots and a make-up haymaker to slam it before the lines form.

            There's already a reason, an explanation, a proclamation, a chin-up. We're super read up on the warring factions, we know exactly how to rough up the shake-off and to pop the cannon fire with a breathy sigh. That is the punctuation of instinct, that is what makes us incredibly.

20/05/2014 - INCOMPARABLY COMPOSITE

            Incomparably composite, they go to their rest all the better for the scorn and scars that strove to make an ounce into an inch for some nefarious purpose that we haven't quite reached yet, the rest of us, I mean. Cold adders, just in case they're listening in.The filter isn't half as bad as the vicar's wife makes it out to be, she's just jealous of all the time we spend on the printer instead of the thread or the black block that she really wants them to have for all their years of dedication and quiet ineptitude. She has an argument for everything including chip fryer fat on a silk serviette. Everything serves a purpose, it's just unfortunate that those purposes serve them. It could be the time where all we needed to live along the river was to live around the bank but we just choose to accept the now and draw a line at the ferry stop because the big green one doesn't pass by anymore, with or without steam shooting from the top. The topic of the forecast, shipping that is, is running a load down to the laundrette and how it does wonders for the spirited soul and all its prospective DIY projects. Scavengers tend to come from our side and not theirs precisely because we lack privilege, precisely because our friends are usually so busy that they forget they're hats and caps  to be doffed at weekend day-trippers. Every now and then the guessing happens on a Friday down at the social club.The books are all women, they are all open to surreptitious remarks regarding soliloquy but they will shut your bony arse down in case the party trick truck doesn't supply the ferry money. There's something to be said about all the transport that goes on down the fantasy and how the cycling productivity only shunts downhill.

            You've got to have to start to take the investors seriously and not make them work like bitches on heat on a lyric sheet. We're all straight in the geyser, warming up to caring about pantheons with emphasis on privacy. You want it and you get analogue all over your jeep and your security permit. These are the martinis, the flaming martinis that happen like tequila without the negation of chorus line. Bring it on along to your profession as a smasher with plenty of time to get it, pick it up and do something for washing complexity. They all do it on the side, spread the governor section all over the parentheses. Honestly they times fools by fouls and produce a sum lacking equality on both sides. December time. I've fallen into the ceiling, you've done the rest for me and they don't like to see either of us trying ahead of the orgy. For the record pathfinders and trailblazers aren't necessarily the same thing, it depends on the size of the cheque. Ask and they shall run away to a melody on the wall. 

19/05/2014 - ASK ME FOR THE CHEQUE

Ask me for the cheque,, ask around and learn the buzz and how its not really featured anywhere higher than the Empire State Building. You should grab your coat and get along your way before the hairdryers start blaring Christmas marching tunes and the chairs rise up to walk away for a short time only. My clock is chartered and beside the sink, hovering over the taps like a precarious posit on displacement theory or black screens from various continents all across the Southern Divide. That’s the power of,,, that’s the power of schnozz and conk and the lady in her monosyllabic wheelchair that squeaks out into the night messages fresh from the mouths of recently delivered prisoners and their horticultural hobbies as transgressed by social media. The coleslaw was delicious and the train demarked for the priory of posterity. Pull the bog roll and don’t take the time too seriously,,,, you can very well tell that the old woman has her facts straight and that she doesn’t want a new quilt set until she’s checked up on the encyclopaedic fish menagerie. This is a distressed woman so you best damn well better take it seriously or the ticker’s up for you, mister. The ticker’s wrong-sounding.

 

            There’s the pitcher with his hands in the lake, washing beneath his fingernails for refreshment before the Superbowl. It was his wife who told me to shove off, eat a dolphin, become better off with fervour. I’m right in the invitation, I’m sure of it; the masquerade was just edgy enough for unconscious barking at the self. What the hell was going on there in my mind? Somebody told me all about naptime and I was suddenly right there, reading about sneakers and penalties. In time you could even become a kidnapper of some salt at the victory bell. Break out of the hysterical sobbing of hyperspace or shut up about missing the snap-cut message in bare buckle pressure. The laces were in during close combat and the pipes were well used for the purpose of mastering ladies of the blanket. Have trouble and you shoot him with fiction of poppers, straight from the handbook. We were committed to a false pretence for reality humiliation.

            Ladies and gentleman, we have no new evidence concerning the clicker retching of some hitherto unseen personality. Our beloved star is becoming a football for the season, for the reason that cheering on yellow teeth can miss the point of a kiss in the rafters and the cameras trained on them just because ALBINO PIGEON says so. Pick your fist fights once in a while or prepare for the special thanks as they crash from animal to animal on the long path to End Bone. Tarzan has a few chortles at the expense of apple corn trees, thus denying their mitigated existence among the glamorous pond life. The game is through for the sitting homies but nothing can ever stop the standing ones because of their German rings and penile effects.

18/05/2014 - THE DOGS HAD A SELF-SUSTAINING ARTISTIC VISION

The dogs had a self-sustaining artistic vision according to the shades that they wore and the dormitories that that cultivated. They are usually warned with treats laced with arsenic, a minor burst of inward flame, and protected by the pollution of the company and its tendency to photo-bomb the orange glow cleaning liquid advert. Use the middle leg as a crowbar and you’re fixing my point, just that really. I mean its not irrational for the dogs to want to throw up following their bizarre turn but I really can’t abide the concept that nanobots came into my office five years ago and imitated another life form that I had quite forgotten about in my lack of a moustache. Maybe my theories and suspensions are best suggested to Amy.

What was the trollop doing in the library room anyway? Defaming a blonde is as good as having the police office under the ice and filled with volcano juice to satisfy the cumin in Andrew #emmleavingonapsecialconversation. Stop worrying so much about the crater, it wasn’t almost anyone’s fault but Mr Cretinous is what I like rat well, on the handout for Press Signing. I want my kitchen clean in the south of terrier without the fear f coming from rue hastily scattered footage if I may be so bold to a radio star and a proper one at that. I might fuck him later, the man says as he reads her mind? No, that’s not a ring colluder anyway assaults. It’s a rock had its day, Dad told me before I want to superlative his proof and do butt flicking. He had a mild suggestion witth you? EMM.

This is the protruding hemisphere right here between my legs, it recognises your international accomplishments and merely wants to hear you do taht real classy American accent for us again only with more emphasis on comic book legends and their seasonal panels because they need the most love and don't receive it somehow. We buy plenty of DVDs and kerchiefs to clean those discs with because the doctor is going insane and he wants to watch a few TV show pilots so he can say that he's seen them and dismissed them approximately. Reactions may vary to the doctor's incalculable accomplishment of insanity but he really did his better work whilst on Ritalin due to all the wavy lives that seem to make up his bedroom.

As of now, for all time, when we see, the old tree, you must try, to talk down, plenty of skulls, to hoax all creeks. Consequently brilliance beholds artistic viability before sardonically rectifying sampled representations saying sorry to reproductive value. The telephone has another mind of its own and it's on and daydreaming its way into a comfortable coma for the benefit of falling asleep without fear of work in the morning and the incessant stretch exercises that he calls a routine. The cord is a woman but the receiver is definitely male due to its high-visibility rate.

17/05/2014 - HASH IT OUT BETWEEN THE REST OF YOU

            Hash it out between the rest of you while I represent the elliptical digit and we’ll all stay here on the outskirts of jail in term teasing. It’s just that the bumble squires haven’t had a limpet. Foot the bill and have sex with your tactical retreats and rolled up night cultivation for a while instead. That’s the day I travelled in a hearse without a kiss goodnight at the door. I leave snappy come backs by and buy with cabbie out of his equinity and hello with op[en arms, the sunshine like a roar of wood imprecision   escaping a boyfriend and not being a baby to an armada to remote controls and their gargoyle daddies. A massage like a joke makes life disgusting and deepening the frame right through until the art sculpture gets told a bit or two.

            He took a photo of his shoe and trapped the wildebeest inside his girlfriend for all the product placements of the village to see. He has little disregard for pregnancy policy and the restrictions made on political prostitution. We all like the facsimile but the fac-metaphor is really irreverent and takes all the piss out of the three for ten deal. Building houses is exhausting work like fees to nowhere climb or mischievous dish washers on their day off from pay roll. The sun showers the day and keeps us all in the night while it does it.

            Lovers in between the bill of rights and the pyrrhic party hat are essentially caught without being told why their monotony is to be rendered punishable or why the celebrities are coming out in droves to condemn them for their elasticity in the face of global disaster. Droves and droves are what we're essentially talking about here, blue pens and microdots. The cat videos are said to be reacting with Jesuit calmness and will not back down until the end of the next rock number which is scheduled for a month after the pencil sharpener dulls its blade on a hairpin.

            The heart of the universe is brimming with such tabletops and finger foods that we can scarcely respect it's silence without the aid of literary fitting and some substantial tailoring on top of that. The dawn breaks the buffalo into its street clothes. You just happen to be brain dead when this occurs, weeks and weeks of merchants have tried to cop a feel of your swastika.

            Such a busy morning for the shatter point to be found and put in place by the Conservative Party of my Regional Bowels. It kills more horses than the prohibition did apparently, for which I am unduly sorry and searing with jealousy. Don't look at me whilst I'm slurping my spaghetti, it puts me off the Bolognese sauce.

            The grand game of polo lives on in the journalist and that's because she didn't get out when she ought to have done. We're weeping down the corridors with our pooches sniffing the underlay for butter stipulations.

16/05/2014 - AND BE CAREFUL WHILE YOU SAY SORRY

And be careful while you say sorry. I am a fan of your works, a favourite fan deserving of being well-remembered as one of your sister’s inaugural employees. The machinery of the good-looking couple are devised by leading operators with quite a bit of bitter spirit. The Reverend sees plenty of troublemakers in his daily journey home to the Dakota Inn. How much are we getting at the moment? In pence pieces? Why can’t it be done? I don’t see why explanations can be reaped by 10% of factored competitors and their unfettered infanticide rates. I’ll have to go work somewhere else, on my sadness that is but not my gloom.

The beauty of the strike is that it’ll soon be over by going for broke on the ringleaders’ backs. I don’t see why she should have been sacked by bright ideas on a plumed chair, afforded by a crafty inspector. That’s the last we hear of his sweet nature and simpering nothingness. There’s nothing else so run along and look here as the unpleasant business involving the police of poison. Dismissing permission didn’t think we were at the age of 24, very pretty and without inquiry. The sense of work continues to improve, namely the ethic. I’ll be much obliged if you’d clear our questions for internet nastiness and trotting along the respectable citizen’s road. Tow the line very fortunately after I leave the distressing time of near-starvation. What a wonderful struck of luck!
            She liked pretty clothes for not doing work properly, admittedly not your breeziest date in the calendar as the dish spins and the clock strikes with all the authority of a chalkboard. What’s the matter with all the pictures? Why are the ones about much difference, so steady in the execution and without responsibility? The Sheila I knew wouldn’t insist on new hats and old pig heads. Goodly insubordination: quite outside of the little girls who crap out tea lounges. If I may say so, the provocation was not as long as December or pressed down with head lice. The girls are impertinent and the causes of a major walk-out. It didn’t seem quite so terrible at the time but pretty boys can’t take care of themselves without selfish thickness that never does half the tenth of things again. Days are smoking finesse by the dozen and the marriageable groundskeeper is cornering the market for abysmal youth. Such a milky aspirin.

I hadn’t set eyes on the girl in at least six months but the things you say to the fronds and the lupus are not as hateful as the desirous nature of a mysterious thumb wrestler from East Texas. It all started when confidence blighted greeting cards by committing suicide. You mustn’t make a wall of honeycombs, not while the young impertinence of offensive chemistry takes the inevitable life of a magistrate in a silly and excitable mood. Some might say that hurling facts with prismatic blondes. I suggest we all wait our turn in the storeroom cupboard.

15/05/2014 - DURING ROMAN TIMES

            During Roman times, the Self-Same Peace Triumvirate was merely an organisation of very well-honed individuals, the types who attend gyms like churches and place their fists against their hips. But now they’re exam officers, wielding fanciful quips about shanty guns that obliterate the night life of any given tissue salesmen. These are the elements of a car alarm: going on, glowing with clout, same-sex marriage affiliations though not all car alarms are so lasting in this final regard. Schoolteachers just don’t want to be shackled down to the trace line anymore; they want to extract art from history and special Victorian knowledge from science that really couldn’t apply to today’s munificence. Our world is now full of women gamers who just want the caterwaul to extrapolate their more coherent honks with typescript once in a while, out of common courtesy. These are our chums larking about in merchant water; they are splashing their heels for medical improvement via spiritual impoverishment. I blame the harems.

            I remain a dramatic inhalation of a game as provided by the theoretical party wrangler on his days off in the Sea Shells whilst attending to fading distances that brighten into trees and opened windows leading out into the everglades. A vehicle would be worse than useful in this patch of the walkabout; you absolutely have to try by foot before you get blasted by the tall chief and his unimpressive, unattractive war paint. I don’t actually believe that it’s war paint because the politics would be just as obvious behind it and I can’t quite wrap my head around that reticent scent of Canadian bacon being hung out to dry on the breezy shoreline. Supplies are running low and jiggling cannot be our only means of increasing productivity in spite of it. We have to persevere with more emphasis on the word ‘per’, that devilish prefix. After a few seconds you tend to just stop listening to my tirades, don’t you? I can’t blame you, it’s the food we give you in vitro. We don’t even quite know what’s in your system anymore, the rainbow trackers are run down and their cumulative ears have popped in undisguised retribution.

            A quivering pile of sacrificial moves that delete their hard-knock tea bags. You're making it quite difficult for my difficulty, my range of kidding and waves of the trade schools. Submit in triplicate to get ready for foolish fjord jumping. That is how we go about the ALL ALONG, that is how we listen to emotional speeches in a gymnastic game of stupid and stupidity. We go through it all at a rate of knots that could help if you just stopped a little to give them time to get out their furious scissors. Ignore the minty asshole, that's just the American playing with his pesos in order to improve his mien. Apologise with salty tears, says the old man, and don't go away without sealing the cream into the sauce. Buy a cartload, a trolley-full, teetering.

14/05/2014 - CAUGHT HIM THE OTHER DAY

Caught him the other day with his lease back to front for criminal facial expressions. This is exactly what would happen in a play, to play and to pore over character and the people who they’re based on who still haven’t yet paid. It’s not the dome that canters into problematic bodybuilding, it’s the degradation of the state of decayed desecration. The mathematics are all there and staring for a good shameless while for the elderly husband in case he wants to choke or bruise his savings some more. Flushing his toilet’s like going into another world where the water is blue-green and the film constantly playing is of a Bongo drum being steadily yanked apart by the power of centrifugal force…

…it’s not every day that lying down on beach towels can be perceived as a hostile retainer for the blameless racket ball game. They’ll clean you nails and sniff them later. Now maybe I can return to my fucked-up, fucked-off bit of pool. I had conversation with a side of salads. By myself, I can’t catch up, I have to avenge my warped and wrapped-up heart blanket for the same of a realistic moment before his father tracks you down and makes you eat quilt for the rest of your curtain-twitching and blind person mocking. I didn’t make me want to mate with any hexagons so that you can’t harass  me. I’ll throw the bottle against her head but it might not keep the water running. Two more emotional and intelligent to learn about a luncheon and delicate hands.

May smoking paperclips guide you to a restless sleep with the very thought of a short story liar attending to superhero facsimiles from dramatic tension to dramatic tension. You rearrange and see the rectangle in all things, the indispensible material of makeshift and shirtless livery like a bad mother. Too cool for chiropractic school, too radical for the seventh age of The Width Colony. Well-remembered be/the rules of history/a crusty principle without phone tails or romantic inclination that would otherwise turn haberdasher whilst eating ginger winter via its reddening snowflakes and drowned out power chords. Books on a far off world = novels involved in the climate change + personal recuperation. Angels have big teeth and even they have something hard-up to say about the vitrifying plausibility of this workaday event on videogame butter churns. The daughter inundates immunisation jabs just to be the one she loves for a few matter-of-fact seconds. Set the plates to the higher table.

Diary of mist and westernised tulips I bloom. Comedians falling flat on their bodices. Numbers wrinkling because the value has chipped away in time for slanderous remarks in a past life. Good to see you when you really mean have at thee, ignoble trout. Sleep tight and make comedy a fixture of love and hydrogenised atoms. Come straight for the house, leave away from the dollies. You hear a word and that word starts the whole thing up again. Six weeks. 

13/05/2014 - UNTOUCHABLE BUSHES

Untouchable bushes filled with men who cannot cry for longer than it takes to share a video moment or a snaggletooth requisite on a fine Friday rind afternoon. It’s all a lovely, bountiful matter of fact opinion that shackles the staff room from deck chair to deck chair, from one corner of the tuck shop to the magnanimous other. The smilers are tying their shoelaces and preparing their weaponry for elfin war on a grander scale than a schema from the cognitive development of psychological theory without necessary application. A man cries into his hands over the things that he wants but can never quite cling onto without society coming down hard on his dodgy shoulder blade, a woman just clinks her wine glass and stomps out all outsourced power for the quick intake of breath that has since become a form of short, sharp motherhood for their languorous number.

I was actively paid not to care about the political climate for as far as the work shirt and stuffy worth trousers go but other than that I can see no reason why I can’t babysit your prepared agenda for a few months, most of which I can and will be found sweeping the fallen leaves away into the playground for the little blighters to play with in their inept obsession with standing taller than their stuffed teddy collection. Repeat this and you shall receive more than a clock, you shall receive a radio with imprints and engravings and all other forms of romance expressed through the chisel which cannot otherwise be defined due to elliptical legal procedure. The audience has the game by the hollow and the demon hunter hasn’t even finished his pack of faggots yet, he really likes them faggots and revels in telling everyone just what they are and how they taste to the sorry and formerly girly.

The lid has been blown and the dice it is caught in the upwind and won’t land until a specific political figures is imprisoned without trial and without a warty ignorance to call established linguistic theory. The shower has stopped running its stranded complaint box for fear that things will soon get emanative with the ammunition, perhaps a tempest of German history shall do the trick while we sit and sip our cocktails until the straightened deck cahirs become little more than fire wood for a cruised-out gig. This is the sort of stuff that people try to take credit for anyway, the   rendition of jumping out of          keyboards while the old women and the popular reference library shall end in wives and wolves.

Spin the thread, work the yard, teach all that you can teach whilst on contract and prepare for the inevitable repeats demanded of you by the fickle and wastrel as they crap through the colonic chocolate system that you so carefully arranged. Remember the nationality of the numbers, the sequences and their own personal lavish islands to the other edge of the East Pacific.

12/05/2014 - SOME BROWSE THE PREGNANT

Some browse the pregnant for hours and seventeen years. I got a man like you to steal a photograph from a dirty little sauce bottle at Floyd’s. Just like you to say whatever you want me to with fresh air and party parts. This is my valuable time to weigh up the costs by knickerbockers and let’s say ta to the farthest reaches of Province Red. I was the golden earring on the Arab that drinks tea for the good of his roubles. This is a card that wishes to have love like a trainee-in-waiting, a card that makes naughty movies for adulthood’s exploitation. Follow me to the right round back, set the magazine free for the centrefold by burning it with firecrackers and the hedonism of a computer programmer. His brother is a hacker, his sister a slacker. What did you get for the exit anyway? Was it just a sign or was it something more substantial? She’s lying by climbing drainpipes and grabbing better oceanography for the sake of the Mafia and their undulating love of short fiction and blue Koran suggestibility. This is the shit that gets me off the tracks, saves me at the station for juncture and giving deliveries for ponces. Why do you crimes in the light? This is the sample of the hammer being thrown, being flung across sun tan lotion and people who are out there for the organisational whipping. This is sadism in its bleakest form with one heart to do away with and commit fallen policy to communal memory. I am sheepish, just as sheepish as the porn actor can get when he fancies the porn actress and just wants to make babies for a living. This crap is canonical to my timeline, this is the way that my hero becomes a hired gun for the sick joke of a randy gorilla. Nobody laughs at the telling, nobody pretends to be an ambush outside the festival of erotica. Streamers make me father, balloons make her mother. You know her, she is actually your mother or at least could have been had she not been flown all the way out to Cyprus for a business deal that went fairly awry. We towelled it down and lived again like apostrophes in villas, blanking out every siesta. If your memory serves you well then you might just accrue a polite invitation and a handshake from that Englishman in the Netherlands.

 

I’m crying. He is crying. I am living inside a Spanish flat. He was living inside a Spanish flat tyre. A bald man came and took me away. A bold man comes to take him away from the equation. I’m a high priestess. He became the highest priest test. The black cabs will trample me. The black trams with caber farts. I’m a trouble all the time. He is a curious troublesome twitch in the timeline. She’s with my battle mace, she couldn’t be a friend, she’s walking on weapons from prehistory. Such love.

11/05/2014 - HE DUMPS THE TAP/A FAUCET/COMMAND FUNCTION

He dumps the tap/a faucet/command function. He gets the choppers away from the boys by rearranging the airspace, just to be titanic and sure-footed. There's a storage unit in the locality, it writes game codes by means of apology for all the times it deemed to climb into the woodwork and got its figurative hands real dirty. He doesn't do much more than is required of him anyway, he drinks coffee and reads Beckett for literal value. He wants nothing more than lie about downtown with an unidentified man. The security cameras are trained to pan around him like loving chocolates on melted blueprint pillowcases. It's a fox to hold off, it takes the tail and a Mexican to back up. Did he have any felonies? On spring break? Feed the replies to the problematic services.

Sensors are out for dinner, away to lunch, getting drunk on Italian cheese and European flinging. You are a conduit for candelit dinners and harsh turns, everybody says to him, almost as if werewolves will tell the US Military they're yellow fanged secrets from the mind of a glory bean so that they might tuck them into pristine bags of sleepy Boron material. This is the synopsis, the escaped convict with is bucket full of diamonds and the hole that leaked them all out on the pavement. It takes an audience to pull a file of this magnitude. He's got nothing to lose except for drifting flames from his fluoride flak jacket. He decided to risk it all in real estate but found his honour at a diner filled with organ donors and other finished articles.

On this island a man is expected to go to war with one person bruised by a spire, claiming therapy for the curious. Street signs are just not ready for him but he has all the monarchs in his back pocket, each of them chattering away with careful play-by-play. He could have been floating by on a boat, shooting his wife with charge circuits/downstairs problems/ace of jokers for a fool of lists to come along and grift the hearing aid from right out of his curvaceous head. He screws as he sweats, he plays the news broadcast teams for the chumps that they were with Bible logic and doesn't write off his own entrance and departure by the same 5 o'clock bus. Just get out and go along with the loud crunching gear, that's what he says to himself as he tries to break into the turning of bank produce stands. Baby girls talk to him and disarm his lobbyist contrivances whilst standing in the hallway for the time it takes to shatter a glass ceiling. He has the same situation under press control. Suck fumes until he does, suck fumes for the mayor. Stop counting the days, he commands the sieges that afford him no boudoir privileges, stop away from the tides and our adaptation of that play you really like might actually work without putting a dint in the budgie.

10/05/2014 - SPOT THE MOAN

Spot the moan spiriting the terrain away into a hubcap of prescriptive language. What does it even feel like to do what a did does whilst wearing a didn’t on a daring day? Rape by half, say most chaps with egg on their beautiful knuckles. Nobody can trust a humiliated man who doesn’t even play a courtesy guitar and well they shouldn’t because he raises some bad juju to prevent the rest of us from getting along. The electric brush is whirring out a rocky reference formation through the metaphysical oust of coughs.

 

VESTED INTEREST

Some things just simply get discarded when the game is trapped within the salted confines of a medical store. These soft shoes hurt the back without even dusting the crops. You wait right here, says a chap from the opposite end of a fish tank. The operative ‘You’ is in fact a lonely man with a busted lip that kind of resembles a girl’s when in the incorrect shading. Some cigarettes burn out raggedly like pants losing their multitude. The inoperative ‘I’ just copes with pneumonia and has no trouble besides this solo point.

 

LAY BACK, COUSIN

I call it a motherfucking shame. I call it like it is because the split-tails all succumb to my way of fiddling.

Switch the perished department for the plush miss while her sisters and cousins whimper in misty fog and cold, unconquered ground. All I want to do is get you well and talk great care.

It helps. It wakes the sobbing from the house.

GASP.

Gasp.

Gasp.

Gas.

Gah.

 

EXORCISM OF THE FEVER

Breathe now in cool conscience and the fear of the graveyard shall mould you into a devil in some undisclosed sexual adaptation. The orange grove is just a little beyond and you can find all the stuff in the soiled shed for the right amount of travel payment. So come on, screaming Mimi, come right out with it whilst the audience consists of ex-lovers and laundry detergents. Foes come and go like the voices of little old Blues drummers. No words for the percussive, no words needed. Just touch the face with the silver ring and sooth the shirt right off of your clothes horse. Just like that, in good conscience.

 

SAITH YOU TO BIG-LEGGED RUNNERS

Run around midnight and all kinds of strangeness occur to show that you can’t just chain the madness as you would some bossy gambler. Tell him what you really want from the day trip and the lunch break might just turn up. Whoa, whoa, take it easy now; you’ve been laid up for two days, stale but stable. We’re feeding the beating with Ronnie, with his referees and owing to bested metallurgists. What breaks a sweat, what needs to be righted, what needs to become the underside, who do you think you are? Sam Hill. Gordon Bennett. Stay here awhile, as long as it takes for God to see fit that he’s put you in my path to empty two thirds of the burden.

09/05/2014 - BETTER THAN THE ENGINE ROOM

"'Better than the engine room and no less accidental for sexual reproduction and cinnamon responses for the sake of observation. You should love the way I press your chest along the pocket watch of ameliorated attention-seeking. Send your own self on a congressional romance seat and see where it leads you, my guess is a clean cut descent eight miles high. The television has been laid out on the grass, sprawled among the weeds and daffodils just in case the natural perfume leaks through and causes frictional dimorphic tambourine music along an arched cat’s back. The flames climb high but I’m far too small and you’re far too lovely in a gingham dress. Keep the upthrust going and the windfall might be splendiferous for at least the space and time it takes for an annoying person to lick their paw. Read and the whole of the isle gets reshaped onto a mantelpiece with all kinds of shit kicking down with short story twist endings and spattered can-do attitudes on their way to the promised land of Justcan’tbeforgedagain in the Heathen Ridge quadrant. The players are constantly trying to take the field for a game of gorged horizons whilst feminists take over the big brown boxes for the semblance of poets and vets, all squirmy and manic-obsessive. Try not to wake my toothsome retirement plan. Lose a little battle everyday, Grand Duchess Webb says as she maligns her lunch.

Do you recall what was revealed? I’m not sure I can even call what was revealed, I have my finger on the dial button but it seems like a moonbeam in my grip, the kind that moves around without yielding robotic seizure or tampering the scientific artist straight through the noggin. Lock the banker in his own cesspool and get him settled unto sleep, re-home his accounts into a clean black envelope for the enclosure of silken bridgeware. The salivation and deliverance makes the valiant into grubby detectives of the law, a masquerade for gentle spouses with withering rebuttals such as my car and hose. It’s all a matter of inclusion really.

The pretty farthing and all her boomerangs couldn’t start a fire under my more towering collections of videogames and videogame memorabilia. We’re a weary wolf, you and I, we’re weary hounds together in the flattened face of it all with our flanks raised and our feathers farted out from the tar. Do you recall the totality of the product? Do you even like to see your right hand as a product? Would you care to see it resized? Bar-coded? Assigned to a steady rector? Captured with more or less the same speed of a camera in a wind tunnel? Surely not. Surely you’d rather see that matter involving the them that seems to be cropping up due to gamey legs, surely you’d rather be surly about that for a few minutes. Walk away with the bracelet while you can, it’ll see you safely to the damp grove and the tree that is causing a causeway somewhere there.'"

08/05/2014 - PUT THE GOWN ON THE GLASS

Put the gown on the glass, the hour will take it up later like a sidewinder sickness and swizzle it about in its mouth until the glow effect reaches the tenth level. Rest the rest of the chassis along the bonfire and the deal with God and his god bods will go through it and co-opt all unnecessary numerical materials that might otherwise forecast a prequel. The cats are casting off for the light switch store in case you want them to pick up a hunk of plastic or something equally depressing. I've made sure to tell that that it has to be grimy or you won't even consider nibbling it or tossing a salad. A little help here would suffice, in this regard you might say and know.

That's the sound of elephants crushing the remains of the raffle into graphic censorship and emulations of holographic fumes that still rise up into the atmosphere for noxious togetherness. You'll love the way that I turn up the books for the sake of the ink rations. I see the world's smallest creatures sucking out our common sense like spinach and taking all other relating buzzes by degrees. This is the frantic boredom of cyanide apothecary, well that aside from the acid rain. Revenge really wouldn't be enough for the breeding process anyway, any case, anywhere. The shiny shopping masses of worthless jungle machines so be sure to get it working by boiling the diesel families into toxic sludge. After a while the coughing fit will subside.

            Never hockey. Never region. Never again shall the nocturne see us apart without rational dictation of nix and nays whilst inhabiting the breathing space of an enthused remote control. The scratching and the kicking and the hair follicles are really just for show, a show made especially for the hungered and immeasurably consecrated. Foul breath all round, I think but then thinking isn't quite as lovely as imagining, isn't quite as terribly porous so it probably wouldn't get quite as far in the whole resurrecting dead rock bands business we've been charged with. Sorry but that would be your fault, you lent a hand and that inspired the hippies to write you into their long songs. There's no cheek to hide behind, you're a tongue that doesn't even wag anymore, it just flaps around in a subservient manner, in a subsumed manor house. You just can't seem to keep up with those down payments.

             Here we go again, give a Byron-esque bite of thyme to the fat stranger draped in various smocks and see how his little consumptive habit lights up for all the children to resume their legal patter. The lids are all coming off with impressive voice, they orchestrate a fine vintage for the sake of day old ice cream cake. Now's the time to be Shelley in a diaper, not Erasmus wit alf-finished lingo. Get the feeling in that belly or chicken out, if you prefer. THE WOMAN IS STILL BRINGING THE WOMEN.