23/04/2013 - THE FOGGY OVAL EYELIDS

The foggy oval eyelids retain a milky texture but only among the destitute blind and welting Welsh. Mother only has pride for the innovators, for those who defy the commonalities with their insistence on footnotes and various wordy paraphernalia. It makes my mind small in comparison and keeps me reading up so that one day I might be as smart as these Mr. Alec Pants people types. Think of me as the Samson with a Chihuahua locked firmly between my thighs, think of me as the guy who has his ear stuck in a hair dryer and is begging the National Guard to do something about it before my old war wound starts acting up. FYI, it’s flatulent and irritable, quite like the author of several bestselling novels about boxing and the tiffs between rings. I suppose I’m snoring like Erasmus at a sunset parade, making sure my fingers are firmly wedged in the button holes to keep out the sceptical wand-wavers and charming hair sweeper darlings. It’s time to paw the ventricle and see what doesn’t occur for scientific purposes. I suppose it will be:

 

1)      Barking laughter

2)      Quasi-demonic cherishing

3)      Alarming body hair quizzes

4)      Never-say-die attitudes to situations involving DVDs and bootleg ninja stars

5)      Camera-shy monks shooting the breeze with BB guns

6)      Door knobs

7)      Nora and her ilk representing the southern states of America

8)      Crocodile tears before the bedtime of calcified violets

9)      Goodness and gladness and gory sexuality

10)  All in rows and nothing else but curving binders

 

I’d prepare the elephant guns but they are taking a back swing on this one. The hero has a name tattooed on his back and only his great grandfather can translate what it is, mostly because it’s his own snot that obscures it. Anaesthetising chasers without a permit is liable for octogenarian Aryan butt play. Jasper and pound coins roll about the plain, laughing while they don’t once refer to satellite misogyny. The robot heads are baffling the murderous riots into a standstill, so much so that the army men are rising up to paint plastic across their naked brisk chesticles. The door is opened a crack and only a crack to let in the really cool cats and to spite the men who can’t think for themselves, let alone their sweet-legged daughters. It’s a veritable tornado of conductivity, my zeitgeist is lurching in the undergrowth, trying to find some form of tangible claw to cling on to at the behest of their sacred livelihoods. It’s the sand running out in the desert, the writing on the grains of nobody’s business. It’s going forth to conquer and coming back to gratifying arse scratching. The kitchen tiles collapse on the good and the gormless alike, they shut the box like it’s a movie ending that the box office paid a pretty penny to see and will not go without. The walls are filling up with suppositions and gradually being picked away at by love.