29/03/2013 - CRUSTY FORKS DO NOT FRATERNISE

Crusty forks do not fraternise with the bossa nova sisters. Flints unwind like someone rushing to the interesting plateau of nonessential rectories. Clapping with frameless glasses bothers me, it irks me something rotten. I’d hope you’d agree but you’ve seen nothing during your time here. Wrong-doing is a service and a service that has paid you well. Lemonade has shaven eyebrows and will break the priest’s sensibilities with little more than a single pelvic thrust. It’s a knighthood of a sort, to visionaries mostly. The illusion is not in the perception but in the physical trust of shadow ministers. Foreseeing the fox’s downfall is a job in itself, like a baby on a pale whimpering face.  Moorish clandestine tomatoes are tainting the alcohol in my burly breath that irks me too. Things are just piling on today so I’ll try and keep things short and sensual. It takes a cat to be sufficiently responsible for a dire situation, none of the other four-legged furry things do much else than drop hats on tomfoolery-shaped feet. The bleed is coming or maybe I’m seeing courtyards again. Watch your crushed vice for trouble in the form of a women crossing oceans. It binds the mind and makes one only think of early morning excitement and plans that will never work out on the day trip itself.

            It’s a transistor of returning, a box in the whirlpool of an invitation to bonnets. I certainly didn’t get to witness the catching up but at least there are dominoes to be hawks. Bronze knots the transistor and rewinds the precipitation without the whole evaporation business sticking its dirty wooden nose in. Sugar over my destitute suit and watch it slide off the shoulders, as practiced. Fingernails keep crutches for darling starlings that go to their wit’s end and never stop the woe. Hymns and frisking with certitude are what’s left on the plane as it descends into paganism. It’s beginning to look a lot like speaker phones melting under brusque intolerance. It rides waves.

            That churlish Rasputin loses friendliness artfully and directly beneath the sun. I am different and she is never going to land on the buzz. It’s the day that cleans your pageantry and scolds the kettle with the colour of her magnificent skin. It’s a treatment, a treatment so soothing at a lavatory that you forget the flush. How the logging gains on elbow pads. Opaque like a light switch that lies uselessly in the background, unsatisfactory like the speech of yesterday. Goodbye to phone calls, goodbye to intonation of the spell.

            Don’t you know the way my face is going? Accusatory spectacles specialise in shutters and shudders and musk rats that insult the intuition. Resentment is an alcoholic idealism, bowling with ceramic diametric. Shalom to the time it takes to let alone a good will’s waking. Alter wine with thankfully minimal vengeance, it may lose its yeasty flavour but at least the thunder knows satisfaction. It’s doubtful I shall ever write again.