Dancing with widows breaks the
spirit and channels it through the nasal hairs. It's like a longing that sort
of bashes about the place with its paper hats and droopy-eyed festoons. Home
keeps me from going to the bad place known only as the Speech Impediment, a
land filled with rotting alphas and combusting affidavits. My sword is not for
grinning, my grain is not for the salivation, all my weaponry is packaged and labelled
according to height and sexuality. Keep them segregated and watch the enthusiasm
procure their mouths. It relies too much on my amusement and lack of patent
clerk confidentiality. Be rooted to the spot or move in droves that do not
exceed the square formation. Home is a concentric circle that broadens at the
prospect of meeting celebrities without tax evasions or mysterious surnames
that maybe perhaps link them to the Welsh Mafioso.
The columns are making eyes at
your mother's fruit bowl and that just makes me sick with resentment. It fills
my cheeks with brilliant mockery, it makes them burst without a curling iron or
matrimonial courtesy. It is perhaps etiquette to regard the bridges in such a
way in case they should take personal offence and ruin your cabbage patch with
their laser eye surgery and various goods markets. I wish you to meet a god with
more clout and considerably less throat medicine, mostly because my dragon's
mother wouldn't approve and I really don't want to make her happy right now. It's
a croon to be me sometimes, particularly when the minutes are drawing near the
motorway and won't show signs of stopping for a quick cup of bollocks
guardianship. I'll tell you how to go to place where nobody hears the whimper
of patronising sex, it's somewhere near a cherry tree and all its cheery
foliage.
The ground is pounding with
blood and my script will not opine bullets, won't discuss the merriment they
might bring from a drought of tangerines. It'll help you go off into the
wilderness, maybe even with a pair of handy little mittens but that's as much
as it is expected by anyone to do. The ruler has no time for bubbles of logic
or respectability, it feels too much like conspiracy and now we are getting
over that for the sake of the kiddies. America taught us well, taught us how to
do the samba and the rumba and the back-aching itchy ball syndrome flip trick.
Under the Moorish principality lies its thirst, it's inequitable slurp for
fiery medicine and all its fringe benefits. it rattles the shit cakes and
usually leaves before the military begin to notice their gold tops are gone.
You see all that? The stars are
winking out, they just want to a good reason to curl up with the milk of ages
and let rip at the bread of wasps. The heavens are a place for celestial break
dancing, the sort that disappoints so easily. Leave it out, why don't you.
No comments:
Post a Comment