21/04/2013 - ELEPHANTINE HONKS

Elephantine honks in the night keep me alert to the fact of fast moustaches. Say what you want about me but my customers like me in nylons, they want to share moonlit waltzes with my wife. It’d all be to the sound of trombones if I could have it that way, twice as white as Steve Martin’s hair. The crackers betrothed my wiry stature and refer constantly to my pig farming days as if they were anything but the epicentre of my bedside intelligence. How I miss the crustaceans on the horny pillows and the footprints they’d leave behind to remind me of their girth and romantic delusions. Homoeroticism shoots through the Western landscape while we call the airline to bring forth the wolverine phone transcripts. I had over seven hundred dollars in here and I don’t care for the accusations. We were robbed by the small time hucksters of our tradition in order to become van people ahead of that structural septic tank. Morris dancers brook neon laughter and sow the remnants into limey seeds.

It’s a beautiful country to become a wastrel in; there are so many carols to be sung just to get in. The ticket’s a gift for someone’s least favourite holiday, the plunger being a side note to the issue at hand. Steam wears a negligee to see the show; it gets Smoke hotter than whiskey-flavoured Deuteronomy. It’s a passion unto itself, heading on to a wispy trap. Such a sad, sorry hamster becomes a snort of maddening trapeze sex and only morons want to get a front row seat that sort of thing. Perfectly disgusting and richly sickening, yahoo! So I didn’t hide the last time, what does that have to do with the ducks in the rainbow fire? The guitar still plays, it still functions despite missing its lucky penny and various other paraphernalia. The switch runs perfectly randy and Norton and Erasmus are yanking the jewel off of the race course like it was never supposed to be there in the first place. It wasn’t but at least we all have the common decency to approve of its existence in our day-to-day reality bubble. Glory be heaven in a clutched vacuum bag.

Nosy Erasmus has opened the portal to Neil’s navel and all of its vile, sweaty secrecy. Like the caped fairy once said, dive first and you forget whatever it was you even came for. It’s the first sign of dementia and we all know there is no bag to check for instruction manuals, no scratching post to cling to. Outside of the void there really is only forty eight ways to survive appropriately, three of which are: dress entirely in golden paint, throw books at the freshly-dug corpses, make a mockery of the guy wielding the twin pistolas as if they were educational. There really is no betterment such as the one proclaimed in your nightmares so stop pretending to scratch the surface of the tent. Sarcasm is a drug.