31/12/2013 - ANYONE WANT TO GET OUT OF THE FRIDGE

Anyone want to get out of the fridge before the new recruits get laundered in? I didn’t think so. Cart them off before they figure out that they can haggle with their stepdaughters and barter with their stepping stones – There’s magic to behold, there’s dead men all across the sanctity of barrages, there is an automatic declaration to sign off the back of each obsessive century, there is, there’s – As for Roger, Roger couldn’t stand the cinema, the cinematic heat, the shotgun pressed against his amygdale and the cast-iron phoenix he involuntarily rises with every breath – She is a beauty is the one he loves but cannot seem to hold onto without the standard length of net curtain, she is fickle but then all beauty is to some degree fickle where ugly suitors are concerned and the bills and the costs of living need to be paid regardless of  fine decision-making – They called down the old team: Peter, Sanchez, Erasmus, Mr Thank, Sandra, the Other Sanchez, Neil and Someone Something from Somewhere, they called the old team together to set the world on a perpendicular angle just to see the sights and recreate – Oh the hearty, they aren’t quite as photogenic as you remembered but that’s not your fault, it’s your prerogative to be pneumonic in the face of almost certain desire – As of no moment left to go, we have upped the platform and given into the drizzled cake of madness and its leading us to the tissues as we speak but then are we actually speaking to you or is this just a mean attempt at tickling the love bone of some big-bosomed actress? We will not be having that again, mister madam: the sooner your behaviour goes back in alignment, the sooner you regain your capital rights – When a fascinating journey is embarked upon it behoves mankind to hold its breath in such a way as to stupefy the faculties of disbelieving – When a comparatively missionary journey is embarked upon, using the word ‘embarked’ is like attending a ball game you just were never invited to – You need to get the good license for the good news – Repeating guys as gals in a room is a commonly misplaced pastime for the sanctimonious bullshitters with their heads up their endings, usually quitting on the tagline or footnote – Direct confrontation is advised for the ill because your cause is just and your cookies are in the mail at every available opportunity – The mullet is making a comeback and the comb-over is stepping back to reconsider its daze – Forty, fifty, sixty, eight-five promises all wrapped up in a sheet usually used for wayward tools – Characters keep on teaching caricatures to the world like the greyscale backgrounds will ameliorate the net curtains and somehow get them to reconnect over where the holes should be or at least used to be – Paragraphs come streaming out and men with the foreheads are pretending they can do the spin too even though the meeting was never cancelled and their lives were never changed-

30/12/2013 - DEALING WITH AN ONLOOKER

Dealing with an onlooker requires the thinnest crumbs on finesse lips that go all the way up to here with their crazy talk and second opinions. There is no need of the cream shirts and magazine stands, there is no way to jack up the tyres with Americanisms and glass bottles of fizzy drinks. I find your excuses highly arousing and deeply displaced on only a moderate level. Comb your hair with English eccentricity and chatty wangs that wear bowties just because they’re supposed to. Do you do your homework when it is required? Do you really just wanna go crimefighting? Lives like these always come a-callin’, a-comin’ and then a-knockin’. It is the final option for an upstanding man in a Palaeolithic emotion suit. I can’t reach the call.

 

As for her, do you have any idea where she goes out at night? I’ve a feeling there’s something sinister in the drugs she takes, something psychological that impedes the physical with wedding ring lies. Roll over gently and you’ll see. Prepare yourself for a mission and the heart will second guess your every move like it was just something out of a hypochrondiac’s catalogue. Smiling does give cause to give in and grow moistness in the garden. You’re hurting the CIA with remarks like that. Your favours make me look illegal with tongues that wag around like classy actors with motionless eyebrows. I always dreamed of hanging with you when I was hanging with them. Back in the day it was a good baby swing but now the footage has run its course and the potato chips rely far too much on key changes. It rocks my roots with marital trouble, it teaches the blue screen to go on and above its station while silly masks and adaptive dresses are what’s really courted. Let’s do this with the big businessman in the other room. He’s eaten and swollen and disrobed his teeth.

 

The sooner you co-operate, the sooner this blood money will take care of itself and wait in its unpleasant residence. Water gushes and only paper cups leave Buddhist mantras in the ensuing soup. Can you drink malnutrition? Can you forgive childhood obesity? This is the baby growth you foist upon open people with acidic ingredients kept firmly in your backpocket. This is the rumour going around town, this is the facial hair that belies a factual tumour. You took my boy and you took my girl but you grew my girl so I suppose there is an easy shakedown to be had. Stay with me to the end and I’ll admit it, I’ll admit the gun pressing against my temples with five, four, three, two, one bleeding straight into my folic ears. You shouldn’t approve. I imagine saying goodbye will do with a bullet travelling through the grey matter and impeding the oratory. You’re bound, you’re gagged, you’re touched by anything including the lady with skyhigh inflections and the unfortunate rigour that deflated businessmen hear about in holiday newspapers.

29/12/2013 - AS OF NOW HE IS A HUNTMAN

            As of now he is a huntsman with his blade riding up to his inner thigh with the hopes of yelling out a usually whistled tune to attract the passersby with their wallets underneath their skirts. The war goes on for him and his blade, it foretells party tunes and track meetings all along the brick road with rice paving the way. Who wants to wash up the cupboard when there's a window? The giant cranberries are distilling themselves into the purest glasses of water, galvanising a hundred bubbles in the year. That could be quite funny ahead of time provided that the carpet is properly unfurled and the gurney is all laid out for a hiking trip to the southern hummer of markers. In retrospect the camera could be panning to the trepan but that could have been hammy considering the time and sequential nice tries. It's yellow and brown and made of fiery necklaces. These are names that are gradually creeping out the masses-

            He does some laid out, laid back yoga to appease them but that doesn't amount to much in the grand scheme of things because these people are fickle and believe they deserve more than a few pickpocket remarks. Nevertheless he does his best to treat them with proper conical serenity and doesn't even get an award for making the impossible look relatively easy. How the ghosts of his past must cling to him with gelatinous reddish aspersions, how much they must hurt his splayed back and splay it some more with their liquid strife. Run at the guns, run straight at the guns, as the saying blows. He sometimes sees them on Sunday as they burst through his door without invitation, speaking of terms that weren't fulfilled or wives that never sealed the deal with their noses in the truffles-

            He notices a scar where the combustible food cart used to be on the train that lead more or less straight into his strafing hill. The interior of which is reminiscent of the ancient pyramids of offworld colonies, filled with the SHOUTERS and their ilk, all priced in their boxes and demanding their civic rights to remain trapped in a perpetual condition that no man could pronounce. That's why they detest men, men handle the loneliness in their hosts much like a tree ready to come down with political measles. And do you know where they keep the bees? They keep the bees exactly where he doesn't know to look. They really hate his guts when it all comes down to the promotional truth, they have no idea what he is and that goes against him in at least eighty different ways. The capital of Tea is all because of the chessboard and the words come tumbling away-

            With one final comment about love, the huntsman opens his pouch and lays down the law because he thinks he is lucky. The swarm are coming to indoctrinate him but he will swing his walking stick high and far away/

28/12/2013 - SCARS OF SCARLET

Scars of scarlet and lashings of lounge music take me adrift to a shore that is inhabited by rapping homies that have sinister plans for my truancy card. I can't help but think that they're after my better days to make do with their own and perhaps sparkle a little wit where no-one would expect to find any, let alone want to spend time with it. The clatter and chatter and chitter on batter fills my head with every word that they seem to say when they're actually saying numbers in horrific sequences that go on for months with the intention of glowing and going and gone. Some might say that today is the day they'll skype me with my trousers down and demand all the usurping power I have in my exterior little pinkies. I certainly wouldn't put it past them with all their selfishness and lack of serious sense of humour. It's squishy like hummus on a flanked soldier formation, they want to drain me of my lizard juice and tell me it all over again. The leader of their gang is a mattress salesman, I feel obligated to tell you this while the grafting is good and the hetero mode is shifted onto the back pedal for the homo mode to take over. Expression is a good thing provided its done in fancy hotels and integrates itself properly into the community through smiles and handshakes and insane religious debate. This is tiller man who wants to sign off but he can't, not until he's said your part as well. I'll speak every word in a bedroom voice.

You have had your own experiences of these scoundrels, you have met them on the beaches and fought with them in little more than a cardigan and a pair of thin, weak socks. You would burn twice as bright had you had the opportunity but then chance took over and when chance takes over it ruins perfectly blue skies with mathematical possibilities and that shit really throws you off your game. The women of the world seek your blood in one way or another but they're really just tired of all the work they have to put in because of tyrannical oppressors in their pressed suits and really just want to take it out on you because you've seen their faults and seek to expose them whenever the dog can afford it. It is young little helper, your toxic sister with arms that flail in old hats hoping to find the magic that leaves it residue on coatroom floors. The dog will go on being disappointed while all the women of the world do not know of its identity and continue just blaming you for everything you've been press-ganged into suggesting. Implication hurts when it pisses back in your direction and they want you to take a break whilst the day is still long and the cereal has yet to be swallowed. This is your science fiction, dearest, let it out.

27/12/2013 - YOU'RE SWEET, YOU ARE

You’re sweet, you are, a right sweetie heart. You have your plans in placid pockets and your tangles are yet to be defined by generations of sceptical spectators with their hands somewhere north of their trousers. Each leg is devised and taken by storm to the very recesses of their angst and then they go shoot-shoot-shooting off into the fractured esplanade of sex trafficking. It’s the only way to regret or regret in a new-fangled way that hasn’t been deemed tepid yet. This is not a joyride, this is not a toboggan down into the unconscious with only an imaginary colonel as guide with his kernel of truth or his troops in a bundle against his semi-spherical knee, this is beyond all that and beholden by rock bands that have yet to reform. This is, quite apparently, a point of reference to a point of pot-smoking.

The clipboards have been brandished and now it’s time to make better use of a lanky pen and its turgid pencil friend. It’s a room with a realm in it, that’s the destination of all liars such as we and we are going to ghastly territories in the backwater from now on. I’m not a gay boxer and you’re not a menacing cone arrangement but I’m sure we can come to some sort of understandable, stabby arrangement in the quaff of the acid rain. Someone told me that you have a bed in the back of this think tank but I’m not quite convinced yet, I reckon you do your best conniving in here and why would you want such a big square thing getting in your way?

Let’s play spot the difference in an old-fashioned cobblers whilst they bartender isn’t looking, whilst his shoes are dragging him attention onto the racks of polish on the shelves behind the counter. Let’s let go of the hands of loved little ones as they try out something that hasn’t been killed in one fall swoop yet. Art isn’t the type to run away but somehow I’ve managed to make it lose its lunch in quite an extravagant way. I suppose I should be proud but this is your moment, your big moment really. You’ve got your pocketbook and the gore is just starting to hit the pages with the right consistency, I don’t want to leave you whilst your work is conjuring up lithe strippers in the hooky hokum street. Slink off and I’ll be forced to be beside you in a more intimate way.

You’ll never see the light if you don’t turn your head. No, turn your head more like this and you’ll see…yeah, you see? You’ve seen it? You’ve let yourself go again, haven’t you, like a gavel on a trimmed space hopper, haven’t you? I’ve got your head, I’ve still got your head. Let’s get it fixed in the right position so that your cousins won’t have to know what’s been going down here today. Let’s leave you on the rocky path so that the casual strollers find you. Sound good?

26/12/2013 - WHERE'S THE SCHEDULE?

            Where's the schedule? Who would want to earn what an oceanographer earns? Who would scar themselves in such a way, with tumble dryer tissues and googly eyes? Why do we need to move in mad, impetuous ways? When would it even be right to give up hiding the soul behind the kitchen countertop? What's  a piece of paper when you think about it? Wherever shall you run? Why do you continue to procure these enhancements from the back of a bandwagon that doesn't even have wheels or a suppressive regime on the top? Who wants a surrey? Who is a surrey? What could partake in such illegal behaviour? Why would you want to ask the whereabouts of a when-monger? What could perfect light do to a man when he's on schedule? Why should we pack up the presents and head out for town? Who says? Why they say? When did you start paying attention to the horrors elsewhere? Why be a who? Who be a why? What is a case of good fortune? Who will be the brave one to tell me whilst I stand in this lycra cat suit? Who wants a piece? When shall you have it? How can I even wise up in these dungarees? How now? How where you when when your winning?

            Swings and roundabouts, I suppose? As of now? Did you turn to the understated porter and ask him for his trademark keys back? Could you even do such a cruel thing to a lonely old bicuspid? Is that a coaster you're resting your laurels on? Are you out of your mind and down the stairs? Which stair are you on? Can I come too or would that be totally inappropriate considering the weight of our roles in this current version of society? Society? Shall I make something of it? I suppose? I guess? But guess what? As of now? I'm hardly going to say am I? I was going to say something though, wasn't I? Can you remember? Well can you at least figure out what I might have meant? Guided lamps? Frayed surreys? Lone wolf teeth? But doesn't that sound mushy? I could be the man who switches sides, couldn't I? Would you pay me for the trick? Would you call it an action? Would anyone applaud me for my significance in hurting people's feelings? Could you let go perhaps? Couldn't you?

            This is an answer. An answer, this is. An answer of an answer in the back of a truck. An answer that lies back in that truck because it knows exactly where it's going and besides no-one is going to come slap it dead in its tracks with a walking stick. This answer is like an old man who doesn't even care anymore. This answer is that answer to some extent although it would much rather be just an answer and leave it at that. The answer is a far more fitting title but we haven't had a meeting about it yet.

25/12/2013 - IN THE END SATISFACTION

In the end satisfaction is a bald bloke with a bladder problem and that seems natural. It is also a great way to show the establishment of biscuits in the legal system, with all the clattering and lazy poets putting on their beards, slapping on their huge dicks. It really is as simple as that with slacks and robotic limbs that say so much about media dying out with a mysterious stereo in the back causing viral videos to pop out of their tops. This is mob mentality with trampled buy outs and credit reports. Just you take some pictures of yourself, gazing up at popular monuments with coffee toss instinct lactating all the way through an otherwise hopeless day.

            This is a craggy stop-frame that talks with pretty call-backs and immunity of the mass introduction being told and untold and cherishing the option of taking another one’s trousers off. Could testing women’s costumes really chamber the interlude with pasteboard wheels. The lurking does go on with nicety and a naked night ensues with jumper commentary and sitting pollution. This is good and numerical and filled with coming out on top of building trauma in the static basement of fracture delves. Such sweetness. Very interesting. Very sworn. Things have come around with huge darting in menswear aisles, namely around the more beguiling suits. The wars are self-supporting, they’ve become self-supporting and back down in hashing it out with brickwork objectives.

                        You look like a prat in Denver, opening veins in arrogance of cactus dereliction of duty and oh my goodness the engineers have done something marvellous with the hair on your trilby. It remains undefined and untraceable and unconscionable if you look anything like me in the morning. This is an update to create a better source for a better document that itches less and scratches more with fragile purpose. This is an unholy christened day and the book tidy needs redrafting before the maternal grandparents pop in and start up their annual staring competition with fag ends poking out of the creamy puckers.

                                    I've got you as deep as thrombosis but I've got the aesthetic ready and armed and totally killing butt. As of now, asking shall not only receive, it will make turnips out of the liars we've all come to trust in their fibs of varying sizes, it will transmit their essence to a sandwich board preacher where it'll wither up in the silence of an understated thought process. Some might say that I'm kidding myself for the sake of you but then I am a retiree with his fingers dilly-dallying at Easter when we all know that's the wrong season entirely to be celebrating. The snow will eat me up and I fear that you'll cheer it on with sleigh bell sleight of hand and a turkey in the delivery. They promised me that you would be an absolute prat but I'm yet to see past your sodding coattails. This is your cot from three years ago, is it?

24/12/2013 - GETTING STARTED WITH A LADY

Getting started with a lady with a kickass music video in her butt ugly suitcase. She’s grandma to so many people and pupils and hairy contemplators that drink far too much eggnog. This is medication, that is a reindeer: are you getting it yet? I should hope so. It’s not Christmas just yet but the graft is tinkling away at the cornerstone of my goose-blue spectacles. You better watch out for yourself when being run over is still an option. As long as I remain imaginary the desk will always be open to gasket opportunities and wont will be suitably forthcoming without the blackened sound throwing all kinds of switches. The child is a king, firing the past with fluidity and tablecloth.

This is the tree, the three trees that you’re standing at currently, the tripartite that is ever after ousting the mastery of archery as being the pip to the post. It’s a almanac with chimes and silent shadow merchants that drain toilet seats just by looking at them, just by think about them. The bout is ongoing and we will eradicate them all in the name of hatfuls of peace without the peacenik religions that limpet themselves along the hull. At least you’ve found something to rejoice over. Meanwhile I’m sat here loading logs with fiery vintage hark. All things seem to say that I’m thinking of the meek and the bold, the danger is filled with good cheer and the doctors seem to support the verdict. I don’t like the verdict but it comes stamped, sealed and approved of. It’s a sweet deal.

That is a song with one set of choirboys being intelligent in front of their vectors and illegal angles. They will eat truffles before the night is through and the old mahogany doors are lifted from perdition. The mind has little idea for now. The bulb, however, is practically brimming with methods of rectifying various overhanging difficulties from the last government. I’m not too comfortable with the direction that this handiwork is taking and I may just abdicate before the heat gets too much for me and I act all erased and grated down to the wick. Show the toolbar and I’ll show you a message in dire need of its itinerary. Show me more and I will call the police or, worse, the military taskforce every terrorist cell seems to be quietly afraid of. I am privy to this information. Just because.

            I’m sure of this one-time fix, it will keep me from biting my fingers and may even change my colour to something more contrasting with the pretty environment that surrounds and circulates our heads. At this place they want square nails just as conversation fodder. You’ll never look this nice again with your feet all up in the air. Scrubbing begins at eight and will switch time zones depending on the dead skin on your heal. Raspberries make the metabolism boisterous, it alters the tonal quality to the face. This is just for those nasal passages you call a livelihood.

23/12/2013 - DON'T SIMPATICO

                Don't simpatico mean nothing to look at no more? I have just the thing, an elixir made up of a thousand smelling salt secrets that marry and merge into something nice like an old-fashioned bistro. Let us go farther than the inside this time, let you make it your business with a green neckerchief gracing your willpower. Promise me that you won't fight with honey and well will be eager enough and purposefully so. I have a sixth wife to deal with and I haven't even met her husband yet. Fifty dollars. Geez. Does any person have any present mind with forewarned kisses in heap steeds? That breaks with the lie and love might just thumb itself out with a gardener's glove. No I won't holler while the babies are so near to the skid mark, you're all welcome here until I can come up with a finer, sleeker excuse. My umbrella is up in the air as of now.

            Beauty is playing with the referee's dive bar, curling it up like an oily basket on the back of a horse rustler's corpse. Missiles make the dresses look fine and GASP - what do I care about changing, charging, channelling? I'll brush my hair and start over all again with the bristles and the romance that comes off between them. Many a new day will make me glad to be a hired gun who realises that July is unduly misconceived. Armouries in sepia, in sweetener as I weep over doleful red suns that sandwich themselves into orbit before deconstructing the underwear of igneous rock. How now, drawl of an Irish forester? Does thou read graphic novels in the pantry? Out of shame? Oui. Bon.

            At least the gingham is out of the cupboard for the time being and all the women are beginning to wear out their inner turmoil with brilliant compilations of the humane conditioner. Pleasure finds looking back reprehensible for blue moon measures to observe in all the shining of pink blouses. We're in the river, soaking in the river, heading out for an open road in a hasty case of sad news, the kind that trickles into rabbit hunts and too bad. Go back to your word like an insider trader and you lie on malice for the sake of the pretty peddler. You just take care off the starboard bow before the piddly camera cackles out of focus and into the way of some oncoming storybook. Mine would likely float away with all the snappy lawlessness, it options like a hamper. You got so old and lengthened out your visceral tone. I reckon so, I rightly do.

            Yuletide ugly rumours in quiet, on the quiet, for a gist, for a do, for a don't, for the size of a soul. People will say that we're in love with birds of paradise bang on Election Day 1. I'm off the cycle, I don't know much about you but that's set into my wishing system and its overheating something precious.

22/12/2013 - THIS IS THE WAR LIKE A SICK BREATH

This is the war like a sick breath in the meddlesome triumvirate of the developer's soul. It is candid and passes quickly and with only minor flourishes and the occasional fizzle into an misunderstood microphone. I have a hat and I guard it well from the rats that seem to seep out through the crack in your tidy door. It hurts to see that incest still exists beyond the four corners of your land of divulgence. It still hurts to let go of the shady trees that replace me whenever I choose to think about it. It hurts to be replaced, resurfaced and resurgent. This, of course, is only at times of great and imperial distress.

Your lesbian garners interest in years of incitement and entangled yard sales that lead on the misinformed in ways that the secret services wouldn't believe. I know all the services and they don't hide their quarters or dimes in sock drawers, they spend them on actual fairy liquid bottles. The fandango happens just exactly as it occurs, in a mainframe filled with cream cakes and thumb wars. We're back onto the rifle, fondling the rifle with bearded hands and retroactive glands. Diameters go by lightly with sorry expressions slapped across their mugs and dangles. It locks on and lobs off with chatty gay vocals fed into bland saris.

 

So then I woke up, feeling worse than tears in the afternoon of the apple. Everything that burns here has a cushiony smell, a powdered noise that goes on until the end of time. Show me what you can do with this idea and I’ll wind your mind around DNA and blend it with the internal structure of the eternal helix. These days to come will see good tidings for you and your cybernetic consequence, it may see all seven nations banding together underneath the common goal of forming the constituent parts of your amusingly blue flag. The family is coming forward with the technology to make your ascension credible in most media circles but after that you’re on your own. Everyone has their hands tied for pure speculation, minimal interference. The spotlight is on the patisserie and you are in that patisserie.

 

Nevertheless your print needs more copy and I need a tequila shot straight to the stomach in order to get my head around the hyperbolic tinsel that seals the deal for most ceilings. The webbing is automatic and the normal segues just aren’t cutting cloth in the same way that they used to. Time will spread across the room like deodorant and the shot across the bows will sound like an elderly man coming down the stairs. The inches are slow and the hairs on his head grow with the implicit intention of curling against the grain. People tell me that that’s more like how the world should be but I’m inclined to slap them silly until the ancient trinket box opens and all their family heirlooms regain formalised structure. This is the respect of a generation flooding towards Edinburgh, dear God.

21/12/2013 - THE QUIRKS OF MY DOCTOR

            The quirks of my doctor lie in the imagination of wiser men than I. No women mind, they tend to throw nutcrackers at me when its dusty out. They seek enlightenment and, as far as they're concerned, that means I must be kept away from comprehending my current social standing within their particular circles. So that means I'm forced to shovel down mead with heightened salient morbidity all the while in Sunderland. I'm quite good there, I have a use where the flamingos live, I'm needed to pet them with pat downs and beak holds. Someone told me it's a valid career choice so I'm sticking with it like cardboard and a thousand letters addressed to popular wizards.

            It's the least drawn-out ear of the era and it holds me in level regard in an attempt to soften the blow of my reduction to all available children and cleaners. The floor grates are breaking my fall with jokes about the House of Lords and the mice that reside between the walls there who, in turn, tell tidy one-liners about us. The vacuum is running and the official illustrated metallurgist wants to let me outside before the trial begins and I'm forced to see my betrothed painter be chuckled to death right in front of everyone in class. The misery I'm expected to feel is conducive to the greasiest dance I can pursue. The singers are backing singers and the organ grinder is doing just fine with his own kind in their mutual green tope bag. I'd like to switch the turn into a spin but it's just not tight enough and I fear reprisals from the tooth fairy that lives up the lane, if you know what I mean.

            Ask and you shall bask in a residual cascade of moronic energy, the best kind of experience a man with trousers can have whilst tightening his belt. This is just one game we play in between fitting lace sleeves to fat galvanised wrists. They tell you to listen to the man with specs and a guitar but he really is too cool for school and the boxes are colliding with the stationary he so casually ignores. At least the award ceremony is coming up, it's warming up too provided you have the hollow bones to feel it. There are photographs on the dashboard of the last time it all happened and happened too quickly for anyone to truly experience it. The word 'ascertain' is making a comeback like a dog's ears after it's noticed you've noticed it's mess on the ammonia.

            Red matchmakers are climbing out of the works and the saucy BBQs are almost set to occur but we'll always be here to sing a capella to our teacher's corpses. They don't even knit after the deed is done: what's going on? The trap is a sample set in organised stone and I fear that it has caught something within the last half hour. It's tall, whatever it is and however it goes. 

19/12/2013-20/12/2013 - NOUGHT FOR TWELVE

Nought for twelve, according to the Plaintive Day while played with golden rings within its range. A drunk drove into a tree and yet this is the kind of news that spreads with butter-like intensity all over the grim side of New York toast? My niggles are flecked so go on. My irritability has found an entirely new voice to trail on and lead on various kings and kindly widowers ahead of their chain store inquiries. The floor needs mopping down and the walls need arming with trembling genre five irons. The mmmother has a good windfall lying in wait for her next of kin to discover when she next has a bath which could be any second now and we at the precinct wouldn’t notice or even want postcards depicting it with vibrant red-nosed pictures. We’re not all perverts which is to say that I am not as perverted as this pickled world seems to be. I just sell hats.

This is a quiet work surface and doesn’t deserve the grief it gets from political scientists whenever they feel so inclined to tear it asunder with ultraviolet glasses on and someone’s headache breaking off into feathery flakes and dimorphic concrete. This is a tupenny and it lies behind the ear of every man and woman who wants to overcome gender obstacles with a withered old stick and an off-season attempt at humour. Equality has never seemed so touching as when it is spilling out of your clone gap teeth and all the frozen conceits that make you a walking, standing, wrangling chap. The little children of the town want to thank you for making their beds in the evening and then disappearing before any temptation might be had either way. Fortunately for us we still run the appropriate tests and screen your lambasted daily direction before it gets out to the media at large. That would do us no good and leave the man with the silly hat in a hot sticky room with nothing but earwigs for company and perhaps a few sandworms for guests. The heart leaves footnotes, the hearth leaves headers.

The Chinese Embassy want to draw a discussion back towards your vicinity because, and I quote, you rectangles are plunging the oblong age into a state of icy depravity. Last time we checked, you had this matter covered so what happened exactly? Did a future version of an alternative group of individuals decide to come back and reduce public roll call for the sake of crashing a nobody’s life? You are a nobody for the sole purpose of running away at the first sign of painting over lifetime achievement awards. This is the biggest wheel, the one that’s been in the cloth in my hand the whole time. I bet you don’t see that trick often in the Seychelles, at least not when its hot and rough out. Inclusion is a funny word in that it produces a sensation of togetherness from what is ultimately a rather mundane squish of letters. Everyone knows include but inclusion sounds like a wonderful thing to read when you’re having a life crisis. You do know though that he last place to the concert has been booked by me and a few of my less trustworthy men? We make our meetings very fast.

This is an object of recurrence, that which is an essay tucked into the back of a wash basin for the sake of a whaler’s dark secret, the one that involves a karaoke act featuring a certain mister with a duck bill and we all like to think that it was somehow your doing along with mine. Great times think alike and thicken the whiffle at most failed beer fests. Sometimes its nice to return to old tricks like the Chinese Embassy say. Mr Thank is a genius and I have no bag straps around or indeed across my face.

The gristles is coming down in price or so I’ve heard whilst reading my white hair fix for puppetry troubles? I eventually got back to the promised mountains and was overrun by a great golf tournament that didn’t even think to invite me! So, as of now I’m going to do something smelly in the bathroom. No shit on the walls though and that is fine by me.

            The condition is fast and critical and rifling through a week is like rifling through a hardworking W/C with your hands unbitten and your belt buckle shining off the remainder of the week. The fifteen year old boy will arrive at the rabies with scabies and go immediately off the phone just be there and strong with foggy door control. Don’t weep now my cherished darling, don’t let your head be municipal while there’s a front to be milled. I told you I’m not hungry but we is a big conglomerate word and she is a beautiful word with a fat ass. What set you back? The road? It can make things happen for you, especially on Christmas Eve. Not that I don’t like working with you, it’s just that I’m a Jewish cat with payback slapped higgledy piggledy on the mind. That’s a bad storm, an ill storm with rhythmic body parts that does good things for the sake of a barking invasion.

            You believe in the lines of coming true and the wilful abandon will try to get underneath your shirt and shorts and the really real hairy between you and that gangrenous heart of yours. I don’t really believe that your heart is gangrenous, it’s what’s on the memo. Let’s be good and alone with a fat man with a beard that tangles in willow trees and demands makeover newspapers. He is coming down, the writer of the memo, and he is blessed with skimmed knees and tumultuous feedback emanating from his cranium corpus. Since that time I became valedictorian and returned to rule this planet with greying hair and planet-sized toilettes. Don’t see the leaves, they hate napkins.

18/12/2013 - AAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL

Aaaaaaaaalllllllll. As we go along the band wagon, with the band wagon to the band wagon to see if we can choke down a couple of hydrochloric mince burgers, we prepare for utter warfare in its flimsiest form which of course refers to sweet nectarine brandished like sheets of bladed steel and perhaps muskets. You know the kind of thing: my friend climbs the wall and we all go out in search of realist opinions and game theory applicants through his grinning eyeballs. I read the news today and all that seems bleak has somehow become resistant to me, lapping towards pure luck instead. I mean its understandable but not sooty enough to be forgivable. The lights are changing the acceptance of the crowd like warping the film industry with one taciturn expression of slanderous conceptuality.

 

I would very much like to forgive your masses but they have since been widely acknowledged as being noisy living footballs with crashing piano taps for multiple spines. I was late, soooooooooooooooOOOOOO very late and without smoking echoes finding retribution at the cold corners of my blinking head again. The mellow gyrators are mellowing out just nicely, in other news. Allow me to be the one to shuffle your papers into no particular order. Now you know how the seat feels, does it burn your arse and revert it back to a simpler factory-setting bum? Don’t get me started on butts, the last successor was American and she tore right through my ear drums with her woolly-headed belief system. We thanked her, stuffed her into a cupboard and laid down the works of some unsought author with some plumy saw sounds to flavour up the background and, sometimes, the foreground. The hall swelled and my mind was swollen. It could really turn a head, a thing like that, quite probably. They started a service I wasn’t invited to.

 

This is the tune of a thousand pert suppositions that take the form of insect stigmata with wing casings all splashed about and with some questionable thoughts on global thunking process to boot. This universe doesn’t need to be told how to keep telling its telltales into tubular gasps of tubular straws that lead to international growling in spite of all the colonies and counties that may separate and indeed segregate. This is a wonderful thing yet why can I not help feeling very unkind with the children? This new generation will declare war with me alone and I’ll be on a crutch by then, possibly two with wheels on the sides to keep things steady and moving forward. Your plan man has leaped to nothing but disappointment and has even cracked a pox on the House of My Household. It crossed out any hope of lounging or looooouuuuuuunnngggiiiinggggg allllllooooooooonnnnnngggggggggggggggg the beddddddddddddsssssssiiiiitttttt as it has frequently been termed by comedians with bigger drainpipe trousers. The pain is the hair in my ears but the draining effect of your absentia is really killing me off. They’re such pussies and I will set about them.

17/12/2013 - ON AN OTHERWISE BELOVED PSYCHOTIC FASHION

            On an otherwise beloved psychotic fashion, we deserve who deserves to die and who gets killed in the process. No-one is safe whilst the lifetime is listening and trucking down an almond road. It's truly disaffected like a tambourine on an ionic fuse box, preparing to launch with sweet party snacks floating in its wake. The clouds have it, halve it and use it to trash the empty caskets of a thousand hundred salivating sadists who seem to lie in wait at the bottom of every post box. For months she just lied there in bed, your best friend, while the bailiffs opened letters for her and made various choices and decisions so she wouldn't have to raise her weary head off of the downy threadbare pillow. We eventually lost her in a dream about thin lime partitions in mankind's dawning. She wasn't half wrong as it turned out.

            As it turned out the harpy that seems to make the lasagne in most storeroom cupboards has moved onto cracking jokes about men with educational problems and fish lips that flap on and on about doing Quebec with a pool cue. Please don't be pushy whilst there is so much of the musty stone to be recovered. The Irish lass has lost her breath and now has a cinch where her fire daemon used to be. She said it like that, daemon with the silent blending of vowels. We think it made her important, made her feel like importance could simply be shrugged off her clandestine shoulder blades with insulting grace. It could help people but we already rely on her too much for alternatives to fossil fuel and doily production facilities. The bombs give it to you straight like a phonetic chocolate storm, the kind that fills up the iris with ponytail trick questions. Just say yes.

           

            Just say yes to the director and he'll make the snarky remarks pass with the scripted dialogue, which is to say from the distance and without the majority of the used sting. We'll check this time that that is the only control that the director can impose with his wizard hand. Just tone down the reception of the sun dial and you'll see exactly the sort of director we're dealing with. Nevertheless never give one a static sword, the generals will say things truthfully and with heartfelt apology and the directors will still throw them back against cardboard boxes. I played the shit out of ninety or so old men with picketed pocket money and alimony allowance. Half the fucking time, that is, it happens half the fucking time. Let's just spend the links clearly and without any unrequited tension. There is an awful lot to the keys and pleas among the Victorian hat as collected by other Victorian hats that fold all the way out and drop off with the crumpling of a polite insistence. Please don't be so guarded, the gentleman just wants to know what duh means to you. Please don't.

16/12/2013 - ANGUISHED BRAYING

Anguished braying in the sunlight tells the mind more than its habitual nuggets can find and accept. They make figurines out of those, in sheds with locks and tin shingles that repeat every season in contrived and perpendicular ways. As afternoons let go of the Day Light and Awning Acquaintance to be among the pigeons and the empire they give credit to, the mind will handle more than its fair share of paediatrician bills. The mind doesn't take sixty minutes to be twenty five again, some more could happen afterwards and halls of paradise will want to know and hear back through the moronic ages. Hoping that they are listening, the co-ordinated crowd starts and enables and channels the naked pictures from a celebrity's phone so that they can revel in the conquest and wear it as balm on their tiny ideologies. This Christmastime the mind will run riot and slipshod over kitchen utensils and some other aspects of quick-legged equipment. Measurements are alreadystarting to happen and the mind has its minutes all to itselfandto the grief of maker's past. Turn it lengthways. Clockwise. Probably. Leave it for further than later and it'll be better for seating disappearance and unseating garbled table manners. The piano chords are living again andquite vividlygoing down to the edge of tabernacle to see the Doohickey live LIVE.

            Tickle the core of opening doors with noses and desperate pleas of THAT HE HAS or thathehas. For the from to be frumpy means that the mind must detach itself from every plausible second of placated dog behaviour. The beekeeper is addressed in aquatic perfume and this is done in fine form with the political rights making faces at chicken pizza recipes. The mind oversees the mortgage and drives it through the happy hour bar like used fulsome cheese sauces. Sit down and get out of the way of the my purple way. Two weeks have passed for variety's sake.

            We've only got time for honing records into petite rubbish tip, we've being the borrowed name for beetles at rest among the blades of the glade. Green curdles to brown and the dead are walking again just to find a flame to take to a retail outlet or fast food restaurant. They want to see it higher but the mind is unwilling to just stand idly by. Settling down in infinitives now because rockets are going to the essence of the ocean to prove that Indonesia exists with its own wasted disposal unit.

            There is a saying among the meek thatthe prism dies nicely in gravely alcoholic beverages and annoys the skyward greetings card all the way till military contact. Half the world is appalling with staffs on their ashtrays when itreallyshouldbetheotherwayaround. Don't barrel ahead, don't let the mind monopolise the heavy set tea teaser with its robber's instinct and misshapen toenail. Gibraltar has its facts straight because Erasmus continues under five words and always goes for broke. There is a good point to every outlet and a used farewell says all. 

15/12/2013 - TODAY TRAVELS

Today travels with the exceedingly good at being good-natured and this involves climbing aboard a submarine destined for nightspots unknown to the human mandible. Let us go far and wide and then protract our original statement whilst watching these amazing individuals take that final leap to astounding like a wilting flower tucking under its own bulbous stem in an attempt to stupefy racial impunity as organised and perpetuated by seeded monkey drones in their Ghandi Tribute acts. This is an illegal manoeuvre and will see most erstwhile novelists shot down in a blaze of hammy acting while their favourite TV programmes are being recorded over by their ex-lovers with their spiteful burnt left hands. The finer details are not just impressive, they will knock your sporty attitude right on its trouser leg without even stopping to airbrush the crunchier lines. It hurts to see the face and notice how little it shapes like you, how little it understands the lineage of a towering ego like mine or indeed his. And who is he? He could be a mild-mannered man with a mop and a mop haircut but I’d be more inclined to stew you in the raciest direction, wouldn’t I? Because I’m a trickery in hot pants and rocket fuels and oysters are my favourite delicacy. You can never trust a man with such base desires and I would be entirely surprised if you did. I would have to make love to you with the sound of wet gauntlets snapping in the mountain air and I really couldn’t say more because I really don’t know what that would actually sound like. If anything we’re on the right track now, you in your flower coat and me in my arsenal of hunting rifles. It’s assorted this love but its armed and ready for militia action or a less interesting uprising. Threats come along everyday if you’re me with my halter top and ticking breath. I saw your sister the other day and she described me as a lovely boy with just a few hang-ups tipping right out from underneath my fingernails. I would have struck her dog then and there had it not been for the Ambassador of Irate Phone Calls who was shadowing me that day in a measly attempt to win over a fresh recruitment with as minimal transaction as possible. I demanded money but he shot me a fingered sigh and smiled all the way back to Brixton. I don’t suppose you know a way forward from here, do you?

 

You just look at your finger foods and try not to ask me about my short haircut and if I like it more than you quite obviously don’t. We fried a tartan warrior recently on an apologia but he let it go with his final popping breath and now a signed confession is not even a strict requirement. I have already notified everyone in your phone book and they will know about how best to complicate the day-to-day existence in your pregnant wilting.

14/12/2013 - I HAVE SPOKEN WITH LITTLE FUZZY PATCHES

            I have spoken with little fuzzy patches and then the righteous started to spread out to develop pantheons of black dust in alkali mires and other incredible revolts of scientific discovery. Safety hazards happen so many times over and over, like the mold on the iconic innuendo. None of us are going to make you sad here, we are simply moving onto the next part of the process. I for one want to know so badly that my soup is going cold. Getting into the bag isn't a problem, it's the inevitable transference to early thinking that will leave me an accident at home. All I ask is that we let go of our forearms and measure the tat that will develop along the spurt and crease of the flesh. Understanding chemicals is one thing and understanding reading is another. Let it boil, it will be fine for ten minutes with its harmful bacteria. I have chanced upon an article.

            The shin is an interesting implement but will deserve more quality time with its idiotic older brother while the fridge plans its self-cumulative suicide. The flavour will be fascinating and probably hosed down to within an inch of its dire sugar cane life. This is the fact of my humanly red body, get out of here if you aren't willing to believe with a vacuum cleaner solemnly in your right hand. It's time to make a list filled with bestsellers and graphic designer email addresses. I want to break it all up exactly so that the chimney sweeps will see fit to return to their bold naval positions at the cusp of timelessness. More trains pass through this region of the Blue, Erasmus has his tickets stamped and the banks will burst with his salacious kick in the dude that killed him. The laughter claps and the thunderous applause is in fact an elaborate game of terrific watching. Shake out.

            Conjunctions are just too good at minding their own business that they don't even properly connect with the kidding of killing. The other officers are not even heard or resided in by arsonist demons. What was all that? Could it be less comparable? The thigh gets down and along. Neil has Victoria in his sights and the screams are deafening with the tumultuous hum of apologies. Are you chicken with eighteen borrowed parts? Could the copper say yes to less authoritative grandeur. 'Oops', they say when you're not around to chastise you for it. Let me tell you something about the way margins orientate sizeable cologne. Jumping out the back of a car is like candy to the camera phone, it will help rediscover its swindling brainstorming habits. How coy could the competent be? I'm rich with the caramel of sad categories that devour toilet corrections from the drop of a lover's hat in another lover's dog bed of hours.

            And now the minimal amusement of sharing videos will rupture the honest store manager right in the bladder and leave it at that.

13/12/2013 - WAKE DOWN, DEAR PRISONER

            Wake down, dear prisoner. They rigged the sleep exposure engines especially for your benefit so I'd get ahead while you still can get ahead. Whatever you do though, don't tell yourself or anyone else that your necks are safe and that you are in fact Jewish by descent. The curtains fall so vividly for your kind these days, the guards like to be petty in their restive periods. As the blades of maypole laughter nukes the very memory of a lane that I occasionally sail down when there is little else to do with the day other than defy the laws of thermodynamics. The dark matter invites smiles and low-cut v-neck jumpers just because it turns things all black and lovely. Leave everything out.

            You just did what is expected of you, as a pirate and a lame brain. The only difference now is that you're winged and filled with unhealthy thoughts involving sibling rivalries and pedantic crossword puzzle clues. The restive period will outlast the weakest of men provided that their overcoats are wound too tightly around their waists. The heavy scholarship grates with used ripples along the outside of the fiery flesh. This artistic savant is robbing us blind by simply teaching us an object lesson with the back of his surly target. Time of stealing: eighthundredandthreehours. As more and more pupils arrive at the sentimental peaks, the roster steadily increases to pink ringed tackles. After the fishing is gone there won't be anything left to throw about the stomach and tree bark absolution zones. Bend down and respire some tambourines custom-made to rescue the hyphenation. You are the rattle.

            Any kind of dweeb would hold back the choked heart with moist thrift and thrill. I can't get into the corner again either and that's a bit of a bummer if you really think about it for dirty present-wrapping day. The elastic strafes graphic art on its way to visit the many coats of transition. Let bygones be bygones as the spinal column shivers into restorative patterns of freezing mountain air. How regal egalitarian! How slobbery! How three years ago! Let's see your sister in two years time to see if the game is worth saving via chasm description. Let us try the branch as its own tickled death, pickled wreath or make something yourself, you malnourished scoundrels. Belching beef is blowback, belching ham is a hate crime.

            Choose your quest like your rope, with quiet wisdom concocted within eight seconds. They really went all out for charming antiquity. So many shortcuts on the static jobbing front, such super beauty. It sounded painful but in actual fact it was more like a technical consultation during a live broadcast. The cuddles are noted, the handshakes even more so. Error pixelates and the design can be slipped straight off the top of the low-boiling headband. Whoa! Thewingsthewingthewingsthelocationandthewings. I think it's the dance of a swallow landing from a bobsled. Chill the sled and find the ramp with broken blue cheese.

12/12/2013 - THEIR TAPESTRY

                Their tapestry, their length of fabric, it is their triumph of stitching and knot-loosening. They have it all, these people. They have never been pupils to anyone in anyway, they incur privacy just by staring at it and maybe likening it to some humorous remarked based on a slow-hitting film. They have round bellies and party themes that trundle along with Hispanic mileage, going right through, striking right through the middle. They have frankfurters, the rights and deeds to each and every one of that particular brand of sausage as well as a few average meat products on top. They are calling the police right now because they can read your thoughts and don't really like where its heading. They're branch of police, is a special branch of police that shelters swimwear catalogue models and performs adequate root canals. They write books that go on for decadence, asking statements and posing figures of speech to plucky philanthropists who spend most of their afternoons eating in a foreign person's wardrobe. They act all matey at times when it isn't really deemed as being necessary, let alone amusing.  As soon as you've bent over, they're net profit has increased and bounded over your moony back all the way to Idaho. They strangle other people's stature until blue is the only colour that they are capable of running. It's like a negative.

                Their tapestry is a plot device employed to make misnomers out of everyone involved, to slam an oxygen helmet or bell around their head and shuck their lower regions without any relation to corn. They are far from pusillanimous, they are verging on creepy hipster territory. They are third in line to the throne, well most of them as far as we can tell. They frame the outlines of children's eyeballs in a last ditch attempt to reconfigure reality despite all the modern scientific minds telling them that it cannot be done due to impossibility and stupidity. They are rich like mint cakes except everybody wants a piece and the shovel's been rummaged through mud and ring dust. They are at your place right now, trying to exfoliate the ex-patriot you keep in your middle room, the one that all the schoolgirls talk about with their hairstyles in a tizzy. They know each of these girls by name but will not inform their mothers who are constantly forgetting in favour of magazines about selling out in the condo market. They dart among the raindrops and scoop up the leftover pairs of sexy sex pants. They only do this because your mother is watching and vaguely impressionable.

                Their tapestry is locked in a safe at the edge of a pile of discarded ballads committed to rice paper. They are coming down the staircase right now and are bound to see you sniffing about among their golden-haired mongoose tail collection. They will be miffed about this. They will doubtlessly call their police and instil a ruckus. We'll call our faces in the military.

11/12/2013 - I'LL GET BACK ONTO THAT SHORTLY

            I'll get back onto that shortly, we'll get back onto that shortly, that shortly, that sort of thing shortly, that explosive lycanthropic dust particle that lies between the bed sheets that both our humble mattresses share. I'll get the lover's tiff from off of the newspaper shelf and strap it down with gorgonzola cheese until all the grease gluts my pernicious fingers with their artistic nails that curl in witching blue tails. The gunnery is a modern convenience so I'll leave it in the bathroom with the threesome and the foursome and the fearsome laziness of sandwich sex. You have brown hair, I have red hair, we will make biscuits off the top of our heads.

            They look at us and say 'Oh dear'. We look at them and say 'Tea time'. We fade away before they can even think of a comeback, we become a backdrop blind spot that spells out trouble for starving literary pirates. The blood of the omens they plunder makes me an internet celebrity, a sliding critic with medicated primordial urges that link time and you with a single burst of energetic running. Outside there is lovely weather but I'll stay down here to finish the sanding of the surfboard we'll never cherish. You go all metrical and sample fifty liquorice tapes that challenge the moral fibre of most credible baguette nibblers. Watch out for the hicks with wings, they're trying to make off with your britches and pretend that nothing really matters as the aforementioned rock band said they could see. You don't remember the rock band because that comes from a completely different timeline, that was before the March Hare rewrote history with a hangman's habit. Don't ask, please: it's a thorny memory that I still haven't claimed on yet.

            Oh, ho. Ho. Automatic soap and your homemade soup are nothing alike and you know it. I don't care how many times you try to raise my hair on these issues, I'm sorry, I just don't see how the Humber Bridge could be God's skittles welded together. Aren't we His play-things? I can just see the wrappers, come to think of it, I can just seek the corner where there's a little picture of a stick man flinging some crumpled rubbish into a hand basket like it was pearls before swine. This image is my favourite just as the entire scene stops itself and charges the occupants a hundred bucks just to stay alive. Lovers gyre but not we.

            For the rest of our lifetime, our consensually handcuffed lifetimes, I want to forgive you every day. I want to let loose a Manticore on your gold barrel path with its claws facing front this time. I have already lined up a selection of out of work, out of shape 80's film actors to hold boom mikes around the implied cesspool. This is to please you and to keep you away from my drawer full of useful pictures. You have your folders and I have mine.

10/12/2013 - AS OF NOW THE CROSSHAIRS

                As of now the crosshairs have given up their ancient rite to malinger along utopian high streets, they much prefer tidying up lion's dens with permanent markers and the finer points of life. The bullets come straight out of the rectory and you'd be hard pushed not to feel slammed against a multifaceted wall as it unfurls all the corners and whirrs like a fox in an ergonomic keyboard. The boycott of a mind is a beautiful thing and deserves plumper lips and perhaps fairer skin for the far-sighted and their melanoma cookers. The sound of distant irony slams down over and over again to confront the ears and hallmarks of a song before it is detracted and half-remembered. The elements are finally unleashing themselves with dramatic hypertension and a golden bar filled with nitro glycerine that won't stop, won't give its undutiful sense of belonging a rest before the final landslide inevitably rushes forward months in development. If you listen closely you can hear them saying that they say that the CD-ROM is making a comeback and will host an unexpected party in 2023 after all the cool guests have gone home to ruminate over magazine pages. These pages are usually timed according to their auctioned content and the fox-like whirring never packs it in, not while the spine remains unbroken and the dearly beloved still fill up their carefully knitted place in the bible and indeed most other holy books that few are inclined to merely giggle at. The shoes are knocked off one at a time and the pope has his footstool taken away from underneath him at the exact same time. They play farce music while this happens and I suppose that it really is quite funny except when the pope's guards turn their attention onto you like a naked eye in front of a flaming mirror and suddenly want to question you with thumbscrews, thumb tacks and even a few retellings of the Tom Thumb story. I'm not folk and neither are you. The mathematical equations that are usually asked of a member of the folk community reduce the pin prick dazzle of the brain to something infinitesimal and worthy of a truly slow clap in midnight rain. The crayons come out like a flash and all of a sudden a thousand and one dopey looking blokes suddenly want to write and then rewrite my biography but I want an auto, I've been revving it up for little over a decade now and its getting there. The teacher's hand comes galloping down and that usually stops all play but the engine is a tireless living thing that wants to fool with my remorse to the point that I can't tell which way is guileless anymore. The ice caps are as clear as day but where do I go to make an absolute joy of myself? I need an audience and perhaps a dunce's cap to highlight as the first exhibit. This will happen in the court.

09/12/2013 - THANK YOU, PRAISEWORTHY BURGERS

Thank you, praiseworthy burger. The shit smells like the barbarian causes it proclaims and estimates to be. The pissing cries of a thousand Korean bullies reduces the numerical ordering with grimaces of gold and simultaneous stabbing motions. You’ll be killed with stomach-churning good news and then thrown out with all the other consequential claps in the night. As of now the teachers have left all the rooms and are planning a bloodied and beaten conception. I’m new here and deserve to weep with suppositions but you! You dare to besmirch this round of party games and get away with it! Not once! Not once for this travesty! It only takes three weeks for me to rule your red clouds and plough them into pink sweaty shirts.

            Please don’t be sorry for the father of another amicable, amiable stroke of invention, we have investments in place all over the successful portion of the world and quite frankly you have nothing new that we haven’t already ingested and digested and laughed ourselves silly over. The shit we get into, eh? The karaoke germinates and thrives in various sampled businesses with minimal success. Do not harm him whilst I’m groping the floor in Frisian Explanation. The height of the stares blanks all crazy merchants out of their own minimalist repetitions of matrimony. It is doubtless.

            They told me you were dead and didn’t deserve to live or suffer or even to wear a green shirt on weekdays. You’re scared of drying out homosexual trousers as if it might make you someone who believes themselves to be a tonic for such a thing. I’m scared of listening carefully to men with lady lips but I’ll manage. I have crocks and limpid pools for footsteps. Check the toes, check the toes at all times and try not to think of the underwear being turned around on the rooftops.

            Between, you and me, the provincial state is a red-laced contributor to global patterning. The gentlemen are always looking for you and they have thumbs in their pockets for laying plasters against rough surfaces. Actually I don’t have much to say on the matter, I have better things to do than claim aspects of life as retarded or plum gorgeous. I have a healthy respect for living incorrectly and teaching fuckers to not fall into their ugly stereotypes. Pigs and hogs with blank eyes as you might imagine, as you will inevitably preach.

           After the quiet leads the guided walk, the cowards bruise like darlings and forget all about the suicides of their negligent past. The bandages are never quite handy enough, never quite so fatuous. Disloyalty is such a waste of chuff and spunk, it gobbles it up and spits it out exactly an hour after reading socialist propaganda. You can find that all over the doughnut shop, held up with evil glue. You are wanted to get your hands dirty but someone who might be you only with more facial hair and less life on their back. He wore spectacles.

08/12/2013 - COME, COME CATEGORIES

Come, come categories, your exercises are influencing the shape and density of your calves. The missing hypocrisy makes most who notice livestock lonely and in need of drying up before things start to make too much sense. Then the limbs start to straighten and solidify, do you understand what I say? I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t have these words to heart by the time I’m heading out of the door with all the luggage my turn can carry. The homing instinct becomes a necklace and pretty much all the mind can do is lean on several precipices until the wizened makers snore themselves to dust. You will not believe what has happened in the small temple – a ceremony! A CEREMONY! How horrible with green cards, red carpets and yummy curtains. The kisses and the flowers in the women’s hairs make most men want to come here, stay here and never even think about anywhere else.

 

The fat banana is taking the wives away in polite instalments in spite of all the objections and four-letter words from customs. The first power drive went off the edge of a cliff and fought with as many bear traps as it could frantically surpass, travelling far and wide across the dome scorpion landscape. This is destiny, like a best friend that needs defending from the most courageous form of common cold. It’s a strand that can’t be forgiven or even misunderstood. Every challenge it creates causes an iron face with steel eyebrows among other alloy patches to keep things lively. This is you and me and that is the rest of the world on the parts of the map that we could safely surmise have been coloured in. The teaching begins with dinosaur gradients and spastic bell curves which is to say that the anthem will have to be everything erasable and more. It has to feature the coffee, bags and bags of the beans until the miracle find a way to return themselves to public despair. The alarum awakens with ease and rare oriental disease. Dying of shame is hardly an illustrious occupation even for those who are less than thirty days old. The speed of ticking off options wastes an hour spent on a good bottle of rot eater.

 

            Don’t waste good money on elixirs, quick fixes or triathlons. All these are errant frauds that service the king via his cheeks and their endless supply of razor-like hairs. Either accept the volley of challenge or soon be forgotten by foolish men with frilly moustaches. The kiss of ire happens all over the world with as many as XY crazies following the shouting crowds until the inevitable displacement. Housewives usually try to pass this off as rock and roll but everyone knows you can’t pass that off without the traditional ‘n’. I like their style and dilapidated showmanship. The stones of these graters, the tenacity of these party flickers, the way they trace their family trees with hedge funds and sexy bonking…

07/12/2013 - NOT WHILE THE PROPER AUTHORITIES ARE LOOKING

                Not while the proper authorities are looking. They can already tell that the earthworm is glowing between three selective tablets that hone their craft in unique and unusual ways. The flourishes set off alarms, give them a solid form that grows older and grows cannons out of its eyebrows. The climb is like a dog nibbling its backside and completely ignoring its tail, unjustified and, to some bespectacled gentleman, reprehensible. I can see the fire but it just makes the matter a drone of its former application, a boulder in a lake of sewage and floating bogey mounds. The plantation just turned sick, suffering from some sort of dodgy syndrome.

                Spiders make slick footballers that regularly pay their taxes and lay down their wives for other men to speculate on. The hellish landmarks they create off of the back of curly-haired muggins types is phenomenal and yet only slightly more suggestive than bread-buttered biscuits. You drive the shiny arse to a scratchy-faced surgeon and you get what you paid for and don't go telling any old soul about it until the lawyers and solicitors and the finger bashers have done correcting your false opinions. It'll halt the sorority misgivings and cause cream soda bottles to peak and average out among themselves until they share the same volcanic eruption for the sake of those nosy children that always seem to hang around the biochemist laboratory.

                The oven is in readiness and a transfer of power is imminent. The children among the spiders get out of their positions to make it really hard for themselves in the hopes that that reversal of sense will ward off all opposition. The decision will land in the hands of a crack shot with an empty shell suit, with all the force of a teacup smashing against a windscreen. The shatter damage will  make the black community cry and call the police for reasons we fools could not fathom. Watch yourself while you wreck the storm into clever film adaptations. Feedback crushes all hope with a new set of wings and an aspiring dance tape. The ten microscopic reasons to be cheerless have been leaked all over the National Christmas Pageantry Channel so don't touch that dial, if you still have a dial.

                Meanwhile let us read the pages of a wink and make off with only some of the loot whilst the landlady isn't retroactively conning the supermarket trolley attendants with her winning vertigo. It's not nice to see the man boobs come out in favour of nihilistic political tactics but that's the sort of shit that happens when you like in a closed off society with all the window blinds pulled down. The author of peace is a baton with its sweaty end burrowed deep into the flavourless ground and the only party trick it will answer to involves a gravy boat, a sea monkey foetus and a jar of pickled milk. Please note that this trick is far more boring than you think.

06/12/2013 - OBLIQUE HARPS PLAYING

Oblique harps playing. Strum, strum, strumpet, pop it on a crumpet. Pump it. You'll come to regret the seeing of the eyeing up of an Antarctic Land miner, you'll always feel it burning into your flesh and a few of your retinas when you really should be just plagiarising fairytales for the sake of the masses down at the Laundromat. Up to fifty lines of the same old stuff is allowed, provided you write an outrageously flirtatious commentary to stick onto the side. As of now the down is on the bunny, all along the bendy part of the ears. It's a reflexive verb.
They say regret is the paprika of lampoon, that Susan knows all and must know all for us to know or even care much about anything. It's like a run-on sentence that makes word salad into a worldly achievement for the grandiose and plucked to tamper with to their merry heart's content whilst they abate from their communal kitchens in search of better formats for their pudding intentions and wiser staff members to chuck under the red-faced buses until child abuse and apartheid is sorted out and/or gotten rid of without even the slightest recession of educational statistics. We own 20% of train travel because of these pushy tactics, we lose hours with every tunnel and in some patches of the Kent area. Grab both cheeks and get your arse into gear before so much money leaks from the Scotsman's castle. Never say well enough in case you follow a laser sight straight to costumed book clubs and masked reading groups. The coast is worst and has been for two decades.
Our wars divide the castrated and the mugged, the guilty and the drunk, the eighty from the minus eighty. Some of the banks are reclaiming their claims on clamming up, rethinking their experiences in fields of fist-throwing and spectacular chair-smashing. You need to get to the props to do anything about it, to reinvigorate your peachy brainstorm. Careers square off in a square dance. These are eyeballs and have seen enough to melt a microwave oven with Danish dexterity. Susan has her keys in her pockets and those keys don't jangle unless she commands them to. European Union vigilance.
Her husband, Seraphim, works for the Boorish Meritocracy and describes it as bally well grand fun. Many believe him which is surprising because of his natural lack of conviction and inability to air out dirty laundry. He drops tea bags in jars of coffee and calls it a religious experiment that the Sacred Twenty Five Minutes wants to know but hasn't yet seen. That smells pretty rank, most members of Parliament say but they've never been too good at spelling things out with their usual senses. We auctioned off their plush seating and they've been raw about it ever since, loathed our guts and tried to wish them into garters. Fortunately that wasn't one of the challenges presented to us, we had Susan to deal with. She's boss.