21/03/2013 - THROWBACK AND ALTERNATE

            Throwback and alternate before she switches your mind for sugar puffs. It's her or your unread sanity and all its pluralised hair. Receipt of her refrigeration is like a control for the schism or the sawn-off child's nostril, foul and scouting. So many times she has entered your mind and worn your frock and spat on your double-edged razor ring. Buggery and sarcasm go along nicely with her distasteful impressions of derogatory kittens. Simon knew her when she wore heels and when she didn't care about pulverised memes, something akin to your mother in a crazy skirt. It's 50/50 and I suppose she'll split the spilt quilt like your arms when she forcibly confiscated them in the dawn. Brotherly zebras and the waves of her hair cannot depress the picture of her lies in your wilting cortex. It's sad to be said.

            Always is a word you never use, she said while you brushed her hair and sprouted Hell from between the split ends. Extension cords are purring to see her fink as he washes them both in rye and harmony. It's sickening to think of the way she dressed down that Saturday and refused to kill the salamander while he put on the mask. It's a necessity for her to be her these days. Five pounds she costs, five pounds and a promise that you'll write her into existence with a broken pen that leaks green ink everywhere including the genitals. Respawn and rage against turning blinkers. Respawn for daughters instead.

            Her brand of madness is like a tow truck without all the pretty instruments or slapstick psychology. Cryogenic high-fivers, the lot of them. Her nature encourages such fiendish low-lives and her lipstick pretends to bind them in a wedlock situation that features carriages without wheels and light without catches. That deaf violinist is a retarded dimensional positron with no home to call or wife to heed. It's sad but the world brings it on him and didn't leave off until well past ten three nights ago. It's like folded bits of paper, a recital of physicality that shifts into the interpersonal. How crumby it is to be. Erasmus and Neil are procuring planning permission to wipe out the stratosphere but the Mothers for Justice are out to stab them with violinists and facial piercings. It could work but it requires a great deal of strength of character to work all the way down the hill.

            She'll be back, you know that and I kind of guessed it. She'll be wearing the excuses that usually go well with her earrings, start throwing roses all over her top lip and eyeballing the quizzical eyebrows held by lonesome huntsmen but you'll pull through. The hayseed is a curt reminder of human existence, it breaks the gumption and leaves the restful alone. Be dead for a while and see how that suits you, she'll notice but stuff her. She's out for Chinamen and foolish interpretations of strategy and airport humour. Such a pitiful sing-song.