28/02/2013 - WE'RE OUT OF PENS AGAIN

                We're out of pens again so I'll just pop down to the shops and then step outside before the rain falls down and drinks the evening away. It's a hard day's graft, walking with a bottle of milk in one hand and a pack of chocolate cigars in the other. It's a fad and a right ol' one at that. Howl out the classics and tap your toes along with the sidewalk and all its petty ribbons. I see a girl, I think she's gonna hurl. I see a Buddhist and think he's going to buy my livestock. I see a loose flagstone and think it'll conceal a frog at me. Green paint is all over my house's door knob and I suppose that's what you get for not lying around the shop when there's a paper clip sale on. The till assistant turned me and asked 'Savvy?' and I imagine I said something along the lines of 'Cervical cancer is a serious problem and you really shouldn't write a song about it. It's a scourge! It's a scourge!' It really rather is a scourge. I should really stop talking about it before they assume the joke isn't unintentional. That would be sickening.

 

                We're out of pens again so I return you to your husband and ask him for a fiver. He's a cheap git and probably wouldn't offer chopsticks to save your lap dog from certain mushiness. The cables are unwinding and if I trip on one again it's your head for the chopping block, mistress. Blowhards and cheapskates are a dime a dozen if you know where the docks are and how to get at them from a low-hanging cloud. It really depends on the cumulus, trust me. I've been nubile before, you know; you don't get to look this good without being of a dark sentiment. Visiting hours are for pussies. Be dedicated why don't you? Gawd. I haven't even crossed the threshold yet and you're asking me about the prudence of my lettering. It's none of your business, okay? Get back to your beeswax and have a nibble.

 

                We're out of pens again and I guess that's my fault for chewing all the lids so that they don't quite fit anymore. I don't know why: it's a physical tic, a micro-tell if you're into that sort of thing. Wizardry makes me nervous so when you do it I can't help but masticate quietly in my corner. It's lovely and dark there and you can't bother me without a yellow ticket of leave. The telephone rings and I won't answer it because I am comfortable in my corner. You can answer it because it's probably for you anyway so why don't you, huh?  Nobody just comes round anymore, they always insist upon checking up first. Beforehand I like to trigger a delicate death trap and see how long it takes for the guests to realise their certain doom. I'm playful like that. I suppose it's time to shop.

27/02/2013 - BORDERLINE DEVILS

Borderline devils and nothing else. Can you see it? Can you see it again? Wishes are like legs, they flail about when faced with fascist knickers. Brown and crouching alongside a desolate bridge. Brigands, all of you. Vile and tepid darlings that refuse my refutations that bind the satchels with deadened leaves. Go with gardening robes and make your feeble promises, go with trowels in either hand and deliver the sacred jewels of the human condition. Scribing with glaciers is an imposition on our staples and various habits. Test tubes and reflector glasses for aggressive manners. Fast forward to trauma and yodel oh so lightly. Disturb our shaky chin and bleed us to subzero depths. To reach the throbbing lightning and clutch the wristbands you must crawl and tinkle over perjury. She splits her wings and wears the hair before the tartan banter. Loony glances at unfurling beards and oh the banter! Tears and fists as red as dawn, that is the place where I go in my localised wheelchair. Bubble baskets for your thoughts, I'll let you borrow them like I did the Boron. The hairline fracture disposes of my tawdry sundry bowling tomato. Hospitality and phonics glisten ahead of tomorrow or so the nihilists say. Bullet got my necklace and ripped it from the spindle so that you can thwack it beside your prognosis of bloody hell. Cardiology and hepatitis storms are pointed ears for the sanctimonious dead. Ministers of Drought have their green eyebrows and creeping moustache. The outskirts prowl the apron strings and hesitation stands between us and the quaking fellow. I can see purloined brickwork, fidgeting equations, gilded dexterity, crackling glass, the pounding of pounding porous things. Ordinary comb-overs will stretch at the sight of these herculean presidents. How the unhappy pick up their feet. How they tread and pretend it wasn't all a polite clap. Mercy and I can shake hands but the day requires my magic pass. The swimming is naught. Lifestyle is preposterous. Today is a figment of naughty boredom. Pull out defiance and watch it squirm in all the French hokum. The baggage and the branches and our writhing with poles up their arses. Brass forget-me-nots rain down on the brave and egregious akin. Blood stains on the hand-me-down. Regress like the tortoise and his luminescent crowd. Quiffs and dresses and liposuction: THAT IS THE SOUND OF THE FALLING CHEEKS WHEN A KNIFE'S IN AN APPLE. How dreamy is a clandestine bin liner borrowing the leakage of our prayers! Blessed are these vein gropers! Thou art fetching among all this tinsel! Promises, promises, promiscuous preposterous.  Let us exchange fudge for demolition. Sound good? Of course, they wouldn't know an electric oven if one came over and shot its infantile diaries. The pope wilts like a proud pipeline and will not accept the exception of his Molotov municipality. The wash and the drink are a merging of the ripened ripples and they prickle the erasure marks of a lost deity. Something Viking, I'm sure.

26/02/2013 - OUR BURNING VIADUCTS

                Our burning viaducts and screaming children wrapped in hollow horns. Blasphemy is the sunshine on its way out of the crumbled hallway: it determines the state of the graft. The tiara turned doctor scrub green so I could drape the ties across the stern of the lonely boat. My pockets are. My pockets just are. My pockets will be. My pockets poke eye holes in the youthful countenance of the sickly. That is why I choose to share the truth as opposed to close it in the cupboard. The crispness dwarfs the tundra which is a blessing in its birthday suit.

                Portly Tamara is overcoming her night shock and thankfully my quilt hasn't met with her rug just yet. Priests and yeasts and banality will share in the disaster as I sit back against the curdled wedding dress. The fringe curls and the curls twist in blind dust. Why did the jurisdiction slam the cad? Nobody can tell because of the unholy mouthpiece. I scan the posters but maybe the barometer was lying. The viaducts are now red but still a little black round the edges.

                Cleavage crafts the Eastern values and blows out of a candy trumpet. I have a leather jacket for you so snatch it before the children come running. The obligatory cuticles can be found in the fridge but they may not present formally. It's like Zilch and the Wooden Goose all over again: take it or leave it, clear out the warehouse one piece at a time. We lost our bar stools that day in the Great Neglected War of Pushing Daises. Profound prevalence in a shiny battleship.

                Villas to villas to town to towns. Be sure to keep your respectful distances and smile when cured by the auto tune. Fruitful snappers and dreadful milksops: that is the quantity. The cocktails falter and spill over reams like darting fireflies. Limping is the one and only powerful stance available to the blind in this line of work. We all know where the coat hangers lurk: in the fretful threadbare corner of your conservatory. Don't go in there for another month. Be respectable.

                Erasmus is proud and has no right to be so, the sickening whelp. He ran a tailgate off the road and ground a pygmy into the paving stones. Nothing viler! Nothing viler! Rotten, rotund evil! Erasmus is a crabby traitor who deserves nothing less than an aneurysm. I'll see to it that conditions become hostile enough to trigger the damaging effect. Quantum forgetfulness shall be his earthly penance whilst I continue to struggle up the ladder. I'm going to reach the colours of home and then I'm going to break it all off. I will tumble and sing and swarm upon the last chicken before making my final descent. It shall be a glory unto others and I will not be overzealous anymore. You will exist in my plains by the time I am through, you will thank me for the last time. Ergo.

25/02/2013 - SHE DOES A LITTLE DANCE

                She does a little dance and it violates my principles. How catchy are her calves and the hollow thud I hear whenever they slap together. The curtains are grinning and chewing on rope, rather suggestively I might add. The felt is of the Borgia, the wrinkles of the Ottoman. The teeth are tiny inside me head but I cannot help but bite my own lips. Individually. Together. The blood tears out in gentle rasps.

                Go easy on my soul. It requires a fast reply and nothing too fancy squatting in the background. Too much and it will piss all over the speaker phone and pretend that the fizzles are granges. Memorise the devil's dilapidated quadruple baby bunch. The tangles are dripping with poetic refrains and you haven't even noticed. Typical. Stereotypical.

                Behold the sadism and forgo the morgue! Quintessentially speaking I am not quite there yet and probably won't be for some time yet. I wish you to bargain for children in the meantime, try and sell them off to unwitting families that have plenty of basic solutions. The golden corner is winking at the prospect. Justice shall be served that way. I shall respond in kind in kindling.

                You see them? They sleep in rolling beds and despise the grovelling of carpet tiles with every snore. Alter the grain and they might do something else, God willing. Then again they don't really believe in God because of the fracture that exposed them to earthly skin. It's green and it's not supposed to be so green. Ruefully they will gather up their chairs and scatter them at the foot of a simple-minded giant. Name pending.

                Rupert is groping for supplies right now and Gosforth seems the richest source. They have mills there that jauntily rap at the windows of humble townsfolk, demanding in quiet voices. Who knows what they demand? The ear only listens to the lilting tone and beckons the yuppies to circle. Mercy is hard to come by when they descend; it is like the feeding or the lisping kilts. Cardio-vascular romance is the one way to get them off your back. They like the monkeys but prefer their toes to the rest of their hair.

                Zoom forth and we'll surpass this protection and wander the planes of didactic hypotheses. This reminds me of the bubble baths we used to have when the beaks clawed at baby cots. Breaking magnets is last vestige of a dying planet on its way to Titan. Bruce and Hugh and Sammy and Steve will beckon the van and tell you where to place the final shot. The fireworks are intending to rise against the mobile anarchy. It's bringing its friends so we might as well stay and see what happens as it happens against the clock.

                I have been sat on this fact for a while and it's only just starting to go warm. Worms are frowning like concentric circles in the joke that everybody recalls but not too well. How now.

24/02/2013 - EMACIATED HANDBAGS

            Emaciated handbags drill and drill while today is a bible passage to the Sun. We failed and failed again as the morning tide drank down the curve of the tiger hutch. Samson did his research and denied all access to his fructose leviathan. Quality publication requires the hands to slip inside courtesy and dress the nails with gales. Recollect the recognisance that lustful Wednesday and don't forget your coat. We left them in the cloak room before it tipped and tilted in regard to the blazing horizon. Headphones bleed out and the frugal polarity. Smelling the opinionated is a waste of faint waists. Shirts and fleeces are greenery that jangle at the sun. The flare is a vacant burgeon. Snowy bells. Snowing bells. Hell is progressive and damp. Velocities exceed and I don't trip for anything short of an igloo. Phallic retardation is just one of the many influences that drive the zenith zip. Ode to a clapping house. Flags and bulging cheeks will enhance the yardstick to helpful reverberation. The maximum comes so watch your back.

            Observe the plucked eyebrows and drain the crazed frenzy while I untangle the Christmas lights from the rubber ribbon fighters. Dead things and strategies will artfully attach. Rosy mandibles. Trauma. Trauma. Trauma. Glad hands and humming the François. Holes in plastic will answer these troubles with reclining fingertips and burgundy beards. Usurp the crabbing event before the children take their place among the catty whistles. Tripods and ghastly bonnets will sift through the postmodern japery. The banking rises and Erasmus is a giggly golly-monger. Fell like seeds, wrinkled eyelids and dystopian porcupines. Wizardry and smallpox are lost in my cross stitching. Intersections with rice are my empty specialty. Produce the windscreen wipers and produce the branches that sprout lanky sprouts. Leaflets hither and thither so catch them all.

            Skewer the protector and skewer him swiftly. Forty nine oblong factories shall gross out the negligent violence. Cotton balls are brimming before the jubilant lark's hometown. Browning the shanghais will bring about the braggadocios scent and demand nothing short of the shameful, sallow, sibilant Susan child. Media storm under shadowy peaks, that is what we saw before all the amateur dramatics. I have lost all interest in inheriting the voracious nebulae and you couldn't recognise that. Why have we come this for to run into so little? You are the folds in my fabric suitcase and I am ashamed of the methods that choose to stand ahead of us in this day and age. The mount is a faltering mint and your gnarly glance shall close the door behind it.

            Portentousness is a tricky askew hat that rumbles the trouser department of every convenience store in your locality. Raze the childish shorts to the ground and tell me again why I have left the quibble to die among the pigeons. Ignorance is quite like the sun in this respect; it has wings that it gave up on so many years ago. I am aghast, I am.

23/02/2013 - LAW CANNOT BE A GOOD THING

            Law cannot be a good thing for the slimy toads. Yum-yum gobbled the green grocers' child prodigy. How distastefully we all sat that day! How on edge of the precarious this or that! Heavenly scents brought us down again and made us realise the temerity with which we approach the Yugoslavian embassy. The quibble is over and done with but the resounding victory eats us up inside. I live inside a hope and demand only the finest drawing pins for luncheon. Friendless and asinine, you trod over my gravestone before I got the chance to polish. Where shall my spittle go now? I ask you.

            Rupert is timid and Erasmus knows this and he constantly abuses Rupert because of it. It's quite poetic if you think about it. It's perfectly carnivorous. The pages turn themselves and quell the banana peel disaster that is our mutual heart. Bowties and boxers rape the whirligig of Armageddon dance-off parties. Warty mutterings mumble out of an apple crumble refridgerator. Crimp and rap methodical but only ever operate in total darkness. That is my guardian call. Request the frogs before the clouds come curling.

            The bear is a rigger on the southern brow that you saw that one time in your devilled egg childhood. Lonely nails jingle out the trudging and walk over groaning boots. Where the dents come from we can only speculate. The rope crisps parsecs and drums down on humble ugly. Yellow picture frames talk about goodly numbness. Bobbin delights are a hostess' screwed-in eyeballs. How grey the temples get when you forget the reasoning of fallibility. Naivety is a joking, japing snack of yurts and validity cannot understand the way the barcodes work when faced with blank mouths. Beardless burgeoning is a nubile bastard and reflects nuptial regards regardless of glazing noses. Oh the opening! Oh the fowling! Oh the oh so simple vowel sounds! I grind my teeth against them, as well as yours. Such a maddening operant condition. Curvatures make their faces known among the pied anoraks. Peterborough saw the turn of the revolution and sang a little ditty about me and how I passed in the daytime.

            Slumber is a slumber and I arranged a rose to be sent to your hotel room before the trolley attendant crows. Handles are a grandeur best left in the car and you and you and him are the culprits for this particular case. Specifically, I am in charge of nothing. Know me well and sex for favours, if you please. Effective immediately, provided you are known among the brown noses. The envelopes are all over the table and you just need to ask. Honour my quiz and broker a deal with the dean as the minutes pass.

            The itinerary is not mine to push, it is yours. The fluffy nasal expression is the craven deception that we all seem to seek in this day and age. The lights and the ghosts are in cahoots to make a raid on the last dowry. Say goodnight to the palette and wash the rigid.

22/02/2013 - BLACKING OUT IN DARKNESS

Blacking out in darkness will not ensure the doll's eyes coming. Halfway points to the trudge and the whispery breeze package just keeps flowing. Hands in the dawn fold out the gorgonzola lightning rods like platitudes and talk of hospitality towards the flanked bush. Pounds and pounds and pounds of profundity shall eat and swallow and regurgitate the curious brow. Spit once. Spit again. Demand to see the manager and ask for his best check. The escape route involves a band wagon and its flea-ridden baskets. The blazes wear ill-fitting ties. How curious. The arrow points in a different direction entirely - fidelity, patience, long johns. Wheels roll but not with spikes riding the outer sheet. What if they wore their Sunday best? Who would notice? Pipes are wrinkling for the best intentions. Stories will be told in their favour but only if you would so kindly write them for us. We might pay you with thermometers, provided they are functioning correctly for our children's standards. It would be for the best possible outcome. Promise. Snow and teeth wrap around one another, provided there's a telegraph pole to witness the magical union. Wires are perverse and break skin for foolish reasons. They hate out dance moves and conspire to see them again in a blank future. Fire burns out as we wait for a single reason. Ambulance, come hither: let me spank you. Let 'em forth. Save and be punished, suffer to let suffer. Sweethearts. Let's play that again from the middle. Let us quiver there and eat rolled-up cigars. Tobacco dribbles. Such a lynch of caviar. Comb through and tell what you see or taste or detest. The destitute testament stands for the one-legged blinkers. How sappy is a sapphire to the drawbridge: bride of the nightingale, walker of living tissue, bum wipe of the soothsayer. Clusters for the dearest but not the beloved. Shoes doesn't fit these dainty big toes and their roving little tongues. Now we have the glass, the glasses and the timing. Judges rule that the foliage has a definite way with words and tends to use them to deafen large schools of fish. The bristled lightning rod trips asunder and lets out a howl. This is childish and deserving of an ice cream torture. Fantastic markings kiss quivering lines. It is poetic and denies me access to a woman's gratitude. How lively an act! Disreputable and full of cloudy days. Life has a hatchet for all these occasions and thanks you not to mention them in front of the grandparents. Their gristles bind dirty weeds and talk in dialects and gargle the consonants. Fiery direction and wistful production. The act lives and lives on in a winding number. This is the place where hedges disappear for their bowling matches. They pout their knives like serendipitous syndicates and expect us out. All you limpet lovelies now requisite all over again. Go to sleep and see them falter for the binding qualifications. They belong to the crackling paw.

19/02/2013 - PIRATES DEFY THE NONCHALANT LAWS

Pirates defy the nonchalant laws. This is a fact. It is not worth checking. I have spent hours and hours checking it and I have come to this conclusion. It is tidy. It is fine. Let us leave it at that, eh? There's a good kitten.

                Whimsical joker birds can be seen rimming the pacific light bulb, provided that you wear skyline eyeliner underwear. This is costly and will burn holes in your retinas if you don't like lead ball bearings. Sooty sweetness is ahead of us.

                Gargantuan pale violets have filled my vision. That is also a fact. Prepare yourself for the onslaught of naughty words and a barrage of wet blankets. Knuckles are dipping into loopy ponds. How drastic is a jay-walker day. Who would pay them? Extortion.

                Rosary beads make for fine handcuffs. I once ate a whole one and I received illusions of Rasputin. It was a torrent of turgid Thursdays. I grew legs and legs for those legs. No feet. True fact.

                You know I'm not being honest with ourselves here. This is the product of our property war, this is the way that I suppose we always wanted it. Now I'm breaking boards with scientific methodologies and you are out scouting for fiery trinkets. I daren't respect you anymore.

                Hurt goes a long way when it goes both ways. Vessels will rupture and crumble at the slightest motion of a squirrel kick. Nobody sees it coming, least of all the cherubs that reside in the upper flats. Serves them right, they never brush their teeth to my specifications.

                I swallowed an egg cup for you. I dragged a child from the ocean for you. I watched you turn into his lap dog for you. It was pastime and I was drunk most of the time. You came to expect timorous embraces at the end of the day. I'm sorry, I was being grim for the groom.

                The tables are turning and twisting and writhing for the grubby trombones. My fierce hair is sprouting forth and it's feelers are responding to your negative vibes and the ice cream shard they leave behind. How is it now that we know to go home? I forgot my home then I forgot yours.

                I topped the pencils and zapped the hydra. For a soluble fool it was quite a curtain dropping into breezes. The tincture is brown and wears a corsair's hat. Blind buccaneers and their wayward diving rods. The rot is grotty.

                I lost my art at the age of two. You were probably there, feeding me folded bread and telling me all about the shitty day you had. I was too young to respond with dignity. I was too old to piss my pants in an old-fashioned way. The spittoon was across the hall as well.

                Prospectors kneaded my munching ideas into a big square of viscous piety. It was a roustabout that saved me and I never freed him from his chains. Was he wearing chains or were they party gear? Who knew?  

 

17/02/2013-18/02/2013 - SESAME BLOODHOUNDS and THE LECTERN CREEPS

                Sesame bloodhounds ride the waves that grind the spade into the yellowing earth. It involves a ululating westward dry heave and demands the highest attention span possible in ferret language. Luckily I speak the tongues of the rodent people so I don't have to pay their hefty tax fees. I suppose I'm a knobbly old so-and-so that's why she won't rescind the highest plate to my grasp. Tis fateful, tis frightful. Erasmus plays valet to her thoughts and whims but disregards her fingertips and their colourful ways of saying 'Fuck you'.  I tell him to oust those negative thoughts but he's just too busy decorating spires like some hyperactive monkey fungus. Allow me to remind them of the ghetto ways and how they can fold up into a neat little napkin for the racially cleansed.

                The hole is broad and we're just supposed to tug at the holy beard. Yards and yards and yards and yards and yards and yards and yards of queer thinking that tends to belong to the walking mouths. Thank you cards shall be distributed forthwith and see it that I don't make the appropriate gesture as this happens. Now I'm recognising the methods I recognised then as I clutched the hairy of the faulty dragon. How wrinkled are my hopeless token snipes. Cruise control for the deft and handsome. How typical of you weaklings that do not dance the jolly old dance of yore.

                Septic grins are a commonplace attraction for these empty-headed braggarts. Respectful candies are a ring binders retreat to glad rags. Lymphoma is not an exit strategy for these huddled masses of master less blenders. I'm surprised that I even have to tell you, after all you were the one who enlightened me in the first place. Oh well, sometimes these things slip like minds from a frozen kiosk.

                The blackened pens are drawn to greater passions than can be mustered by such vile and crippled handy wipes. They wear aprons as a matter of practice and determine how the cardigans should fall from the naked waist of tepid love. Here's hoping that the tartan stripes will regain their common cause and play lightly off of the cartoon seedlings. If not we are all expected to turn in our badges and shake our union booties outta her. Trademark delight is a deception of the lowest seniority and will not pack well into waterproof doggie bags. Spaniards before beauty and all that jazz. Zero is beheld by only a few welcome passages and refuses to never be seen again afterwards. It is a promise.

                We were told that there would be a party. I was told that there would be fanciful hats. You were told nothing and that's just the way we wanted it to be. All along the paddle boat, you twittered about folding fabrics and joining zipper to zipper. It really mattered to you. How indifferent we are to your sad little ways. I am crazed and dismayed but will carry on regardless.

 

                The lectern creeps around your legs, licking your booties. Rotundity and rotator cuffs will blend at the behest of the crows. Their little beaks growl at indifference and they haven't taken to you just yet so be warned, keep a look out. I'd even suggest a bodyguard as if it would matter much. Blackbirds go for bald black men and damn the consequences. It's pandemonium to someone as delicate as you or me or I. After a while the guarded amongst the suits will tumble away and drink from brazen cups like the dancing we do in the middle of the night. It's really rather quaint really. I wouldn't say quintessential for many reasons and I'll probably get into them later if you are so lucky. Don't forget this is my borrowed time and you can eat shit before I give it all up to you in one go. The glare of polar bears draws out my eyes and I will not bow to anything else short of the handless arm bands. Work it and rework it and demand that it pays the rent before the fifth. This is the way you live: I am just going to the bathroom but then I will sing a song about abject poverty and then do a little dance to concern my parents who live just a little further down the street. How fabulous, my darling. The board walk is nothing to be scared of but I shall bleed myself wet before I saunter through the splinters again. It's not prejudice if your eyes are closed. Promise. Scout's honour. Draining the wolves of seminal fluid. Brag about the sights and the sounds but not about the smells because we're eating currently thank you very much. You can be a prick sometimes, let's face it. The bugs are out to play with the lederhosen again. How horrendous are we to think this way. Mr. Muggins shall have something to say about this when I jumps down off his pen. The transplant will be filthy process and it's probably best that we all turn away when it finally does happen. Maybe we could shop instead? That'd be nice. That'd be like grafting pleasure onto boredom with a soldering iron. The hour is passing by with a windy wiggly tail. It slithers in spandex and hopes it looks damn good while doing it. It's a kinky little thing, is this hour. Mother Pico Second would be scandalised at the site of it. Nauseous ridges will hang from the glen and we can do nothing but sup on our wine. The truth is the finest vintage when your pockets are pushed in such a way that is unavoidable. Believe me, I know whereof I speak. You should too, you're the one with the nipple clamps. It's time for a rescue, I do believe. Maybe we should leave the cape this time? I know you'll groan but that's a benefit to me. Ready, steady, diving board!

16/02/2013 - CONGLOMERATE ICE CREAM

Conglomerate ice cream is the best ice cream this side of the rosy atmospheric back talisman. The llama drinks wetly from wrinkled hands and demands nothing but the finest felt jackets. Rotation happens when nobody asks for it. Holy paper weights shun the light that is cast from the erasure marks and will only bend to them when Judas defies levity. The fabric intertwines with the sordid party hats of tomorrow. How i grew fingers on my toes, never you mind. This is a private perimeter so shut this down before I open you eye lid with a gentle curved spoon. I'm thinking the brass one is the finest fit for such a delicate no-hander.  Ripples are cast by the aghast and the gormless. Yuletide hair-raising is like razor sharp wit and the draining of key rings. Go now, go now, go now, go now, go now, go now, go now, go, now, now or never be free to do right by us. Salami is the only answer. Watch the blades twitch the pages and decide on their destiny with a fruit drink. It is how we wove the belt buckle through the eye of a storm. Latex wishes respect the iris in so many ways that it would be fraught with dangerous dalliances. Now then. What is ahead of us? Where should they take us when they think about it? Come down to it? Utopian bawdiness reminds me to swirl the kettle space into a malformed vacuole. Grocery for the graphology hampered. Their anthem is like the sound of sweat rolling and stroking and winding down after a long day at the beach. The curvature is leaving her blind so lay your justice with care. Forget the calm and the claimed. Forgiveness is a jumble of twisted xenophobic reactions. Refund is profound as is the way that you crack that corn fire into a numpty. Pound the ground and I shall turn away.

                I am facing the grasp of a hand that is a claw. You are grunting to your own tongue's joy and jocundity. Blast them and foul them with righteous yards. Mark the elm tree and walk backwards to see the sea without turning your head in the appropriate direction. This is all feckless and unromantic. This is a way of life to some people and to those people I say 'Well howdy doo and follow the transplant because you're not coming this way again, my children.' You are all my children and I accept only some of you. This is not bias this is a good way of discerning the sinister from the sideways. Themes are for the wuss and he shall say his piece in a minute, I am sure. Wasps and myself have things we need to say before the day closes to blinkers. Host a bonfire and tackle the lightning difficulties. See me with a hex in my sleeves, it bends across the collar and no-one should be surprised by this. Someone will be. That is the way.

15/02/2013 - GUERRILLA WAYFARING

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

13/02/2013-14/02/2013 - BLANDLY WE TALK OF LOVE

                Blandly we talk of love and the way that pink hearts yield to concepts much bigger than their embolisms. Good little goats are we, to a trend that defies the hand which talked of nothing but the opening of goodness and the righteousness of cuddles.  Today I grew into a man with chest hair and John O' Groats whispered sweet nothings into the back of my hedgerow. Tomorrow I meet his wife and talk about the times I shot our daughter from a canonical cannon and hoped sincerely that she would never turn or return to my side. The shingles of my liberalism are shaking and I suppose that it's to do with someone that I saw the other day but just can't remember the face of. Love is not a first sight thing, it is a forty-eighth.

                I suppose it's easy to get embittered at the gender of the evening but it never realised that it walked around in drag. Lipstick is just another word for thin mouth. CD covers are not allocated to the thoughtless and chubby. Today is the first day of the restful horrors of tomorrow night. Groaning will get you nowhere in this world unless you have a trolley that doesn't talk back. The branch isn't quite strong enough for a gentle metaphor rub down. These corners are lethal so be advised and do not bring me into it. I am really rather unnecessary in this matter; just ask the letter zero.

                Thank you for the thanks to gratitude. Thank you for the fielding card that does not curve properly unless asked in Dominican. Blaze on and wax the walkway. It is tonight that we should fear the most, anything else could be donkey logic. Curls are the new roses and Michael said so to Nigel the past week. It wasn't a sight to be particular about, it was just another way of wasting the early hours of your existence.

                Michael said something about the end of trouser presses. Nigel mentioned that that was a myth and should not be recited by cretins with childish minds. Michael told Nigel to fuck a lemon and use the lime as lubricant. Nigel said, well there's certainly no need for such language, you stinky twat-faced git. Michael exclaimed. Nigel shot him in the ankle and left it at that. Michael told him he wouldn't just lie down so he misinterpreted the dances beyond instead. Nigel knelt down beside him and punched Michael in the shoulder. There was a lot about it on the news.  I wished I hadn't been there.

                Qualifying for the raffle auction was enough of a pastime for any old chap to handle. I once met an old chap and we discussed the merits of romantic coupling. He sought an invitation to a gay bar and told me to go with him but I said not a chance you creepy tuft-eared old chap and he took offence. He wasn't wearing any leather nor did I expect him to do so. The light was on the blink but I crossed the road all the same. I like crossing roads and looking at watches on other people's wrists.

                Rectal thermometers are not good friends on Valentine's day. Neither are medals or roast beef. Cuttlefish are surprising conversationalists and will not say much if you don't blow bubbles directly into their face. Scales are for the lonely, who are equally unavoidable. The shots are ringing out.

                I suppose the edge of a buzz saw is not the perfect dinnertime conversation topic. I asked an old lady with a green card why she had a green card seen as how she'd grown up in this country. Why did she need it? She told me because it belonged to some guy named Gerard. I reckon that I knew the Gerard she was thinking of but his name was Bruce. He was plucking dandelions the last time I saw him and was in no mood for a quick chat about global warming. I was known for my fierce political views back then but they have long since slithered down the riverside.

                Perfume wafts make no sense to me but then I have no sickles to speak of. I relied on rattles throughout my later life and now I am ready for the winking of koala bears. Opinionated childhood dreams don't like to be called up at eight o'clock in the morning for anybody or any reason. I'm breaking lollipop sticks right now to make the perfect gift for a woman I'm bound to never meet twice in a year. It's very romantic when you think about it but not quite so linear.

                Mug handles, mug handles, mug scandals and watch me walk. Ghostly apparitions appeared to me that time I almost caught a catfish. It was quite obscure to me, the way its tail danced in an absent wind. I realise now that I should have choked it when I had the chance rather than let it fall out into the dishwater instead. Vox populi brought it to my attention and it breaks my spleen to think so. Hooks are twisting my baggage into misshapen shapes and I just don't care at all in this current climate.

                These words on a page are starting to overwhelm my fingernails. They leave my thumbprints shallow and porous before the sunlight's heavy beams. I'm on cruise control whenever I want to know why I wouldn't go off and do that stuff instead. Instructive, to say the least. The jobless and meek have tassels and I really appreciate that shit. The fires of Xerox machines make me smile toothless cherubs. The fork is bleeding and the spoon is laughing. The knife has nothing to say on the matter. Besides, would you even listen? You don't even listen to your daughter these days.

                Goodly Master Wizard, how I envy you. Your sleeves reach the ground while mine cling to my wrists. It is a sad day for polyester but a better day for swimming.

12/02/2013 - DON'T GLAD HAND

Don't glad hand. Don't thank me. Don't seek me. Don't question the hypothesis. Don't be a mongrel. Don't waste the public's time. Don't start again. Don't yet again. Don't be that guy who says 'again' at all. Don't rustle, don't hustle, don't yank away. Don't hurry in the opposite direction. Don't violate the children's greenery. Don't blast a harmonica. Don't whistle a rape. Don't fall rapidly down a well to Hindenburg. Don't switch around. Don't ingratiate oneself to the poor and the hairy. Don't fall into full temper. Don't defy definitions. Don't write incredibly long sentences in the hope that a break will present itself and thereby save you from the end of a sore hand. Don't wreck the wood. Don't fill up the planet. Don't dance over the subject. Don't dial a dalliance with my perfect nanny. Don't turn. Don't turn the worm. Don't turn the worm whilst riding a finger storm. Don't pipe down. Don't drink the liquids. Don't wish anything into Christmas. Don't distribute Eastern ideals. Don't bowl Hades yahtzees. Don't fondle the fiddlestick whilst lingering on Jeremiah. Don't redistribute the oxygen that I have used to tell you straight. Don't eat the brown twigs. Don't drink the yurt out. Don't belch a tent. Don't wriggle out of a piece of string. Don't strand your stances. Don't work together for individual accomplishment. Don't ride the tide to glorious saturation. Don't book now. Don't refuse nothingness. Don't go into detail about unnecessary plot points. Don't whittle away the hours with handstands and arse wipes. Don't curtail the plasters of American History. Don't writhe and wistfully accept the invitation to invite. Don't daren't do that against the will of the people. Don't pretend to be a citizen of speciality. Don't use canvas bags to save yourself. Don't go lupine. Don't drink fire fluid. Don't sip the remainder and want to go on a journey. Don't split hairs that are not the people's hairdo. Don't succumb to the limited time only. Don't make a wife out of a womanly hip. Don't detest the restful gent as he plays with his pyjamas. Don't question the structure of a localised rectum. Don't pull apart the existence of a child unable to grasp hard sums and washing up liquid. Don't shoot the kettle with a patriotic hammerhead. Don't lick the calendar on the appropriate dates. Don't fail to fail for the sake of winning. Don't turn Victoria. Don't hollow the will and wish for his children as well. Don't talk to me about scanners. Don't ask that girl about the way she lifts her hair clips. Don't smarm your way into the hearts of the everyman. Don't give in to guilty yielding. Don't shard the grocery list. Don't discuss the nature of the beige books. Don't force the people to escape the silver. Don't grope the brown crayon. Don't call Neil and expect him to talk problems. Don't pester me while I am eating the suckled fish. Don't repeat what I am saying.

11/02/2013 - THE YOUTHFUL-MINDED

                The youthful-minded sons of bitches are out to get the faint-hearted. We know this from the sheer influx of reports coming in from below the seventy virgins that live on your street. It is a sad day for Craig and only he can express the depravity with which his mother will lollop over the bushels. I now possess a forklift for the explicit purpose of removing these chimpanzees from my water garden. These beasts are a pain for the leaves that don't quite die and just need a few moments to relax before getting into it good and proper. The snout is joining over with screws in its brow. The whole sight is rather saleable for the right sort of customer. Allow me to elaborate without saying two words about the edges of those holy books.

                The Innocent was right about the day Erasmus left for town. The Innocent has a glockenspiel and will not turn it against any unarmed child. There are seeds you can use to stop him in such an unlikely eventuality but it would surely be a waste of potpourri. Blasphemy is the wilting apricot that exists just on the corner of the stratosphere. The papers we receive such information from are curling into tiny pin pricks of humility. They're forming interlocking stick insects and I doubt their speedy recovery. That is not just my opinion but our opinion. You have no say unless you drink up the pages. Your hands will be restrained, in any case.

                The operative term for my current stance is 'willing against the breeze blocks'. Magnify this field of thought you may never return intact. I am forming switches all across my arm and these switches are bleeding phosphorescence.

                Look-y here! Why look-y here! Ain't this the dandiest thang you've ever seen? Aside from the concurrent anomaly, of course, but we should have the margins accounted for by next semester at the very latest. Wires are thickening at the conceptualisation of such an untendered aphorism. I shall shop for a better state of mind the next time we aren't so hocked up on goodie medication. Kelly is drowning what she told me forty afternoons ago. This is probably for the best, if you must proffer a theory.  There is no art to laundry and sundry winks are the only thing you can come to expect of all this wavering. It is incessant and I refuse to go into full bloom again without the proper authorisation of a prince or one of his household.

                The discs are running off with the hedges and the spheres are flattening the children. Tea cups and tea pots are tawdry misgivings. Grounded graciousness will ascend into flammable publishable balls of identity. Run along and thank that woman over yonder later. She might just hang around long enough for the obligatory autographs and feigned humility but then she might need to split before the horizon lets all things out. The whistles and the pins and the nightmare rounds belong to Lazarus.

10/02/2013 - SWOLLEN JANGLES

                Swollen jangles and swatted book tokens. The landline falling on top of a yacht, tipping it into the ocean. A gangrenous arm tickling the underside of a television. An ink cartridge exploding in the face of the alphabet. Pins are collapsing, three at a time. Curdling ghostly. Frantic growths are appearing on the bony old ones. Teeth are gnawing into ice caps and swelling up the pustules. Seeded. Rectal barometers of pastime. Living alongside the postcards that nobody remembers from their erstwhile childhood. Branches unfurling in the trucks of a powerful key figurehead. A translation for the best way out of a Death Mine. Mayan hands rubbing Aztec noses. Saucy and succulent yeoman health which doesn't turn over when punched by a goodness fairy. Father and farther still. Bear the undulating hence and press down with tightly pinched fingertips. Score through the lands of empty utopia. Dysfunctional library of moose wishes is set to numb the gloss of your hopes and freedoms. Go and go without a hat to tumble down the hollow neck. Unwind the rotundity and ask for someone to yell before the tip collapses into a grinning corpse. Suppose so and respect the grant money at your risk. Fragility below the beard of the last hemisphere.

                Keyboards clatter and bellow at mighty windfalls as most have seen, who wear turtleneck jumpers and fiery emblems. Thematically speaking there is nothing wrong with the type of day or smell of year, it is all the same when considered in ghastly light. Publicize the harem and welter for the Specific Southerner. Foul regulations and tepid yahtzee operate on a different level to the blind and goodly. Envision a future that does not determine the Welsh handy blobs, the one's with the foul taste against the sea breeze. Churn the roses and bleed to begonias. Books are falling like leaves from a priest's bathroom. Rain is violated by knives in jumble sales. Boring rigidity is mundane only to the inexplicably handsome. Reiterate and yawn for the sake of perilous, fraudulent magnets. No more orientation. No more orienteering. No more anymore Westward Ho! Blue and gritting molars talk about the last thing available. Bruise this yawn and watch it wretch all over the furniture and candles. Bras fizzle when you open the cloven graft and hobble when run down into the pavements. Grocery after grocery after grocery after gross negligence. Blow out the switch and bowl gigantic.

                Forgetting the day is like forgoing the night. Gifted grapples accumulate tirades from the giggling key rings. Let's all fall apart, let's all drool into buckets and miss again. You are doing nothing and I am worth nothing. Quaint hands are leading us outside the bowling green and what do they expect us to do? Wrinkles beset these walls. The chimney has an eye for decor and the batteries can't complain. Canvas bags relate to me in jelly underwear. Blaze on in a rotund whirligig and see how brass grows in the opposite direction. Flee for bliss.

09/02/2013 - CONVERSE

'You do that, old sport.' 'Don't deny me; don't you dare.' 'Wouldn't think of it, would he?' 'Of course, I know my own mind. Thank you so very much.' 'You know their problem: bad attitude between them.' 'It's safe to blame the parents and the general upbringing.' 'Well I'd say the Woolcrofts did make a deposit on that forest goat.' 'Are you sure you're not just feeding her a fever dream?' 'Oh don't! Stop, you silly!' 'I'm not the one to pack myself into another's mind put try and clarify this for me. You and I are no longer with him and yet we still wear the bracelets. He made it so that these bracelets would join together in a burst of light. Wouldn't you say that that's magical? Wouldn't you agree?' 'Oh darling, you've gone and lost your rigidity again.' 'I never joke when it comes to beanie toys.' 'Would you just look at yourself? For  a moment? You're an ironing board of a publisher! You are a disgrace to your sexy little people!' 'I don't think I ever had hair, let alone knew it intimately.' 'The swirls he's talking about are like ears in my head. I hate shutting off for the night only to see them gnawing at the bulbs and switches.' 'Would these Germans kindly move aside? I hate to be so polite but they're bastards with friends.' 'I love lids. Romantically speaking.' 'Wouldn't dream of realms if she hadn't told me what I was missing by looking westward.' 'By jingo! A relation!' 'No need to seem so aroused. We all know you're strictly omnisexual.' 'Flame retardant joy is the best kind of joy you can get your hands on these days.' 'Dilly and dally. Dally or dilly. Simple enough if you're a Laymen on leave.' 'I am pent up aggression when it comes to the walls between the parliament rooms!' 'Quite a way to go, I'd say.' 'You'd say?' 'Well I did just mention the British politics to the erstwhile Mr. Jameson. Goodness knows what he'll come to think by Thursday this week.' 'Next month, I heard.' 'Of course, you are dangling in that pond, aren't you?' 'No need to shout names at me. I only own a Corvet.'  'I drank the string!' 'How unreasonable, my lamb.'  'I once heard that the best way around that particular guard is by limbering up the dancers right in front of him. He sweats and shuffles around like nobody's business. They're into the raunchy stuff, these guards, the really raunchy shit. Like gnarled bones and bitch sticks. Kinky as fuck.' 'Yuck-yuck.' 'Do collies respond to open questions?' 'Should collies respond to open questions? It must seem like a trick, even to a dog brain.' 'Be kind and don't deliver us just yet.' 'Are we hanging these plasterboards or what?' 'Oh. Oh. Oh my.' 'What's happening? What's been happening?' 'We'd like to apologise for the gross negligence displayed by our cream and tea company. Sex is not a favour and should be kept strictly behind the counter at all times.' 'Rather.'

08/02/2013 - MCMANUS EATS THE SANDWICHES

                McManus eats the sandwiches from his cottage in the prairie. He'll lob them at us when we're not looking because he's a right old codger bastard. I heard he had a wife once but she left him for a green grocer with light grey hair and a dark grey watch. It was the most romantic thing my mother had ever seen or so she said.

                That's one way I sympathise with old McManus: romance is a null concept. It's a pastime, if anything, one that involves pointless trinkets and tricks in the bedroom. You soil the house you live in when you love a woman. She comes to stay and there is no way out for her. It's life a death trap which she covers with her own selection of drapes. How faintly I live when on my own.

                I knew a girl once who would have killed to kiss me but I would have gone south of a rooster if she had ever turned the other cheek. There are freckles then there is sunburn. It made me involuntary and green and well worth the flee. It's no secret that she went on to become a full-blown ugly goddess of infatuation. She owns a television and knows all the cookery shows and that's how she gets her men now. She uses a rolling pin and flattens then with a sponge.

                I knew nothing when I started to walk along this road but now I know just a little ahead of nothing. This makes we good with red felt tip pens and an authority on all things to do with McManus and his elderly ways. I shall probably share a fudge ripple with his someday and there won't be a bit of irony between us.

                For now I drink the grease that slides out of the supposed heart. I have a needle and I jab it into cardboard to prove a point to perfume. I am effervescent with glee when I see the blade pull through. Not by the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin shall I call this again.

                This is an ever-lasting disc that skips over all the beauty that is mankind's loneliness. The screws fill my eyes and leak out seminal fluid through the pores across my butt crack. I am disgusting but I love myself in such a way that no woman without breasts and kindness can hurt me with their dramatic hurdles. The disc is shaped like McManus: it rides up in the crotch of the cleft.

                Beady eyes stare out at me from Valentine's rings. It teaches me not to be so ghastly when dealing with the frizzy haired crazy women who insist on paying bills through prostitution and cuddles from the taxman. I shall stamp out the gangrene in order to make this idea whole again and I don't care who knows it. McManus probably has an inclination but I daresay I distrust that old bastard with his heavenly disruptions. Oh, there are miles to go.

07/02/2013 - MY DOG HEARS THE ATOLLS AGAIN

My dog hears the atolls again. He says they taste of Western values with a scrub in the middle from the left hand of Jesus. Little known fact: Jesus was left-handed with both hands at the exact same time. Now that he's been out to sea for a few weeks now, I'd imagine a story of my dog is well within order. My dog is a godly creature with ears pricked to the sunrise and eyes forced towards yeoman surprises. Catatonic love fests are constantly colliding within his runt skull but he has no particular interpretation of love when based around sexual acts. He grunts and humps the tie-dye cardigans of our city. I blindfold him shortly before the act.

He has goggles that I put him in when he isn't thinking and they slip over his irises like a pair of lemon-tinted harbingers. The effects are profound in my taste buds and I can't say why without the service of a policeman. My dog has little tiny tinny teeth that gnaw into the state of mind that foolish children adopt after seeing soft porn films accidentally with daddy in the back of a neighbour's car. It's the wheels that concern me most.

My over-baked puppy is born of the horizon in Hiroshima, hence his taste for foul thunder. His ears are like the leafs on a calendar tilting on an ironing board of gloom. Gloom is my dog's favourite word; it is the one he teaches to his cur friends. His tail is a drain pipe for his soul and it leads directly to his chasm paw.

My dog is brown and silver where the spots should rise. He is a great wilderness of lovely righteous creeper fields. I use his hair to thread the bobbins of my soon-to-be enemies. I feed him an enema shortly before this so that I can maximise the thrust of these twisted hairballs. Nevertheless he rules the room that I was born in and watches over the little people that fill his right eye. He is colour-blind and hopeless at crossword puzzles from scrawny hands. This is usually when he sits on my desk and fortuitously wields my pen knife at the oblong noses of the people who live just over our shoulders.

Neil and Erasmus have petted my dog but they do not understand the complexity of this action. They believe his hairs to be compressing under their sweet words but in fact his hairs are retracting so they can readily bite the hand in case of unwitting rescue. It bends their minds how he beds the bitches. This a world of freedom for wrinkled sheets and doggy whispers.

My dog is begging for the Sun God Ra to come down and tussle with him. Or maybe I should ask Mr. Ra to tousle his tail and feed him some hydrogen treats that are good for the bones of healthy wildebeests.  My dog is a bad influence but a deterrent to all children of the damning phone call.

06/02/2013 - THREE HOURS

                I've been here three hours and still nothing's done. I suppose it was the small dusty twisters stealing away with the carpet or maybe it was the dark figures in the corners that might be water coolers or might just be blind spots. I'm not a drinker, nor am I a great thinker. I am a badge and a tie clip and a generally flimsy bit of metal held against over-starched fabric.

                I am the sandwich I dream about on long afternoons-turning-evenings. I am hopeless with my feet. I am walking to a cooler though I could be going ever backwards. I blame the silent hum that passes through these shelves. It has made me idle with a baton.

                Suppose that I am flickering out. Suppose that I am in search of a doorknob that leads to a crisp packet closing. Suppose that I am blinded by dim overhead lighting. Suppose this while I ask myself some questions about today.

                I am a sir and out of ideas worth walking over. My hands and knuckles are failing me and I'm blushing because of this travesty. In a library and not even a bibliophile. I do have a flash light though, so that's something. Eh? Respect me or I'll leave you to your business again. You can't bear that lot, can you? Of course not.

                What is it about ties and women? They always want to preen and clean and rip it all off. Somewhere, put me down before I accept this fate for all men in blue shirts. Matter to me once more.

                My dear, my dear, my dear, my dearest dearly deer. Open to me whilst my hands are tied behind my back. I forgot the handcuffs or I left them with Pete. How sweet is this dementia! The books are swallowing me whole, ingesting me in lovely chunks. I can smell the dust already and it hollows my eyes out. How perfect! I am not yet myself anymore!

                I suppose I should say 'alas' and profess to being a simpleton now. I'm a lad from a block and the chip it came off of. I am an old man with hair like the shore; receding, fucking off West of the hemisphere. I wish I had better ideas to venture at this time but alas it is high noon again and the riddles come pouring out at me. This is brutal to my sensibilities. I will yawn now and yawn again later, considering the climate of this library. I am a territorial nomad and won't stop to shake hands or shake pleasantries with these deadly ring binders. There's tricks galore when no-one looks for them. It is a hope to be so glorious and striped.

                Oh sweet and succulent hanging thing: your prowess makes me oh so posh. Electronic toothpaste tastes like lightning on the helm of a Gingham minister. Blame him sideways and I'll go topsy-turvy for all to see. Blast it. And again. And just you wait for the triumph.

05/02/2013 - TWIST ME ROTTEN

Twist me rotten for I am the father of the holy nothing-too-obviousness. Right honourable position, that is. I'm sure you'll agree when you get round to finding your teeth. I hear them whistling the theme of Genghis Khan as he played the bagpipes to martyrdom. I am filled with a joy so sacred I can only describe it as dangling helplessly over a pretty little chasm. Oh blessed yo-yos and utopian salami! Freshness is tasteless any other day of the week and I want a receipt that tells me that in so many words I can fit inside a granule. Contain the weather guard before he clothes the line with street snow and helplessly runny grit. Do you grasp the snout of this situation, it is a heavy-breather and filled with naughty nasal hair that curves and grinds against the norm. I am a cupboard door, opening to your lives. Clattering light switches won't help you this time, you bad man. This time, age isn't an excuse. I have roses on your garden path and they will lead you to a better understanding.

Marmalade roses, marmalade eggy-bread, marmalade Mara, SHUT THIS DOWN BEFORE I SQUELCH!

I suppose I am losing someone's mind, though I can't say for certain it has anything to do with me personally. The thoughts are concentric and rely on hopeful cuddles with a teen from Marsden. I have antennae: wanna see? Yes, well, I suppose I have been neglecting my duty. Yes, well, of course, I, um, yes, well, maybe, probably, so. I'm sure I'll find a better explanation when you give me the space and the time to waste in video game technology. The rain is a diversion for the empty hand: launch yourself and see that the problem is seen to before it becomes another big shit storm.

Grandma, Grandma, where is Grandma? Maybe Grandpa will know. Maybe Mara will know if Grandpa knows. Erasmus is taking the afternoon off and rightly so. Pencil it in before it slips our mutual mind. The wires of my heavenly thoughts are dangling and I daren't join them back together without proper insulation. I am bound for the horizon: do you know where I could find it without going through the obligatory phone conversation with God or his supervisor? He is a cardboard cut-out for my meanness in this case.

Runny lines.

Pitch.

Blotch.

Bambi did a bad thing involving pinecones and pining for little sister's hair extensions. They are the only source of comfort in a comfortless world of sofa cushions that ride up the bum. Mesh lightly. I know how to tango but I'm not benefiting you with that knowledge; not until your eighteen and filled with resentment. I am the twig and your are the leaf, little one: remember our places. Lather the soul with butternut squashes and key chain mistakes. This is blameless as are we all when it comes down to it. At the bottom of the aeroplane, we are all blameless.

04/02/2013 - BOTHER MET NEVER MIND

Bother met Never Mind and said 'Why is it that you are always so incessant about action figures?' Said Never Mind to Bother, 'May I interject? I would like to proffer a more easy-going form of insurance. My intentions are nothing but pure, if you would only accept them as being such.' 'Bollocks!' said Bother, 'I have no intention of declaring your intentions fair and just. I know you not well enough to state the bleeding obvious.' 'How very blatant.' Said Never Mind, as he reached for the loafers, 'I trust you will go off and fend for yourself now, down in the undergrowth.' 'Like hell I will!' Bother groaned, removing his socket puppet from Never Mind's hand. 'Behind me is my legion.' Never Mind warned, 'Behind me is your death provided that you don't return Mr. Squirteedum promptly.'  'You have no right to Mr. Squirteedum, you vile bombastic tatterdemalion!' Bother seethed. 'Then we shall let the next paragraph settle this.' Never Mind nodded to the line of space below him and the black wayward scrawl beneath it.

 

Ultimate power and ultimate vegetations are the way into the heart of a blind man found wandering some desert. If you feel prickles on your arm it's because you're lying to the wrong person about banana gouges. The plasterboard is waxing on and orange lights are going off to call attention this most significant event in human history. The rug is on the wall, fighting with letters that have spent so many years trying to stay up there unaided. If we must settle this argument between Bother and Never Mind then we might as well do it now. Let's say: sod 'em. If they want to bicker than it's only because they're just as petty as each other. The sock puppet is property of the US government and we all know that. They can fight over the tassels instead provided they remembered to bring their purple crayons and sharpened lifestyles. Now that that is over perhaps we can turn our attention to something of greater importance: the way that slug's dance at weddings. They sway like weeds in a fallen breeze and they break just as humbly. There is a pamphlet if you know where to look. Yes, the back garden of your mortal enemy's house. Or is it a mansion? I must say they're doing rather well for themselves. I'm so proud.

 

As for you, I wouldn't hear the thunder grumble for the silence. It's sweet that you'd say that and continue thinking that way. We all know what the speakers are twittering about: it's the fuzz and the pigs that can't fly because they've been allocated clipboards and lonely little servitudes. I am sure that you'll say 'Let's be satisfied'; if not then I will be forced to tickle your yardstick. Bother and Never Mind will be watching of course but then they're perverts, the pair of them. I saw them in the bushes and they couldn't disguise their giggles. Truly disheartening.

03/02/2013 - JIGSAW JAMBOREE

Jigsaw jamboree and jelly for you and jelly for that bitch over there. You know the one: the one with the wilting hairdo. I shot down her elk last night and talked it to sleep. Eyes flickered as I tasered the right hind leg. I'm not a sadist: I'm just heavenly bored.

 

My arm is growing again and again and the thumb must just be shrinking by comparison. I read the Atlas and it sounded like a dictionary orgasm over a pusillanimous thesaurus.  It made me bleed green Hindi burgers. I ate and scoffed like a big little blimp of bloated jolly. Eye like shelves for the shells.

 

Leave me be, I'm being it. The tentacles are testing the good woman to my north side. She will forgive the flared nostrils and the sorrowful way it looks over grafted shoulders. The curtains feel a tremor, so switch petunias.

 

Writing is like spewing a cat's golden lung. It's fantastical and tasty and worth a look if you're that way inclined. Twigs become your friend if you become a writer; they marry you if you slip them authorship. It's a sweet way to look at the world without all that necessary skipping over hedge rows. Writing is for the writer to do and not for the reader to read. They sometimes swap hats and giggle at just how ridiculous it looks. I am Vlad the Impaler and I will hammer your hat onto your crown. Brown bags are my grim-hearted servants. They are not sack cloth nor should you expect them to be.

 

Pens are paper oil that sticks to the hands of the wrinkled bastard. Violet sausages can be found at the tip of the nib if you lick it in just the right way. The wrong way involves a trip down memory lane on a fallen donkey of gripping fastidiousness. I love the metaphor like a son who brings me kittens.

 

Oh, you curtailing snakes and Pythagoras panthers! You shook my baby and left me the daddy of a walking stick. It shames me to call 'mammy' as the wind burgeons the roof tiles up south. My fingers form toes when my arms grow well. Dais are dias and today is not a pastime for the Utopian loveliness. I have a cup that is Africa and it is dripping all hell on Erasmus' grave.

 

Why can't I forget Erasmus? He was in my head, retired to the cortex and wouldn't ever leave the lobes behind. He is like a stain that recurs in your best laundry but one that has a fragrant smell reminiscent of the early days of somebody better.  My heels shall crush Erasmus the next time I see him wandering down my park lane. He will tumble on the pavement slabs and the grass that lifts it high into the bowling clouds. The clouds are cancerous but I expected that to be so. The clouds are happy in the way they are ignorant of living thoughtfully again.

02/02/2013 - RECALL A TIME

Recall a time of no people doing no thing worth a grain of sand. Recall a day when West was wasted and North knew how to joke. Think of how goodness could have become good through the process of environmentalism. Remember and remember and remember grapes and yarns and knives for wishy-washy Thursday.

My masks are lined across the wall, linked by the prongs of their headdress. The rug will go up to meet them someday and I will be drinking scotch from a sipping cup without a bottom. Green orang-utans will tell of how the haunted gates of Grant will become giant when first the fridges yell in Welsh dialect. Keep a close eye on their dancing hands in case they should reach for your boogies. Waste the paper basket and I shall eat my left ventricle: not so tricky for one so lithe and loveable as myself in a swimsuit. Soap and frogs will tidy my afternoon and drop the weeks one by one.

Speakers are speaker when coming through the right honourable gentlemen from the southern hemisphere. Sixty six  Semitic slugs will shunt the queer king's polar ears.  Ironing boards and cowboy hats will keep the moustache going for indefinite periods of time. I am timid because of you and because of you I shall not wish for another hamburger. Where is my domino mask? I must haunt the gynaecology department for a month.

Itchybackitis makes me wonder why we are all ultimately volcano volleyballs with nothing but hashish to keep us down. I wear ties but I am not bald with sticky ears to know who or what the night yo-yo is. No gloves for Santa's satin satanic sexy turns: I am disgusted and disgraced. Discus is one of those games that just don't make sense to yellow-eyed wall people. I don't know, you don't know and nobody would ever wear pinky-purple earrings.

Triumphant are we who eat the art the day-to-days shit out. Red superheroes are still red superheroes without the nine-inch leather capes. Prissy crossing to tepid cardboard for the white-faced, pale-faced son of a gun is a glad pastime for some who do not wear hole punches in their yellowing hair. Round like bubbles burst in aquiline nostrils. Menace me with this long hair that curls in all the wrong ways. I am so grim when eating your desserts. Sleeveless and joyful are just not a way to live these days. Nipples of naked light are the final aim of the abject many. Baskets and baskets of little lights and nobody more.

Reasons are ideas that somebody hadn't thought up for a bad way of thinking. Drink some gin and horn in on the classics with devilish action in mind. Be determined to ruin the world in a justifiable manner that leaves paper chains in your wake. Doors don't need handles, handles need the doors. Posting the answer is a safety precaution and a fine way to make friends with men in shorts. Winter is a yearly occurrence that no-one expects again.