04/05/2013 - HEAR THE CLATTER

Hear the clatter, that’s the sound of becoming God’s protégé. Not a position to be sniffed at, provided you can clarify that the man with the big thumbs really is God and not just some throbbing melancholic. The mistake is easily made and one not soon forgiven, some former protégé-attempters ended up committing seppuku in the orange groves. The reason? Is that question ever honestly answered by anyone but the gnat and its top hat brigade? They’re generally slippery buggers especially when trapped within the bushels of moronic decision-making. The machines may whirr but their logic can be broken through the slightest whisper of carelessness. Their attempt is by far the finest utopia, inasmuch as the cast are scorpions with rosary beads. The guitars don’t solo for the deceptive decrepit creatures, they make their screams and wails for the dead inside.

Thoughts that rely on chicks-for-free ideologies can cause the salami of togetherness to fail rapidly. The amorous colour television comes crassly in the night so don’t expect a tribunal to get away with the conceptualisation. The phantoms are merely borrowing the burrowing technology in order to become more proficient liars in their lairs. That’s the way you do it, not working for the dumb blister persons. Those baggage handlers keep us from the gate keepers and make the underside of our jockstraps yawn for deliveries. The truth behind apologies is that we all must come closer and not exceed our recommended price offering. Monsieurs are lurching all over the other places, making churlish comments about angry policemen with curling top hats. You may rest assured that the child will be fed according to the machinist’s specification. The timetable has, of course, been up for twenty seven years. But the mayor has shown recent signs of conspiring for change, of teaching the tiger new ways to complete its bad-natured resurrection. This can only end in big tears of fabric.

You make me think of a man from years ago, a man who disappears and always ignores the ocean with new-fangled internet memes and a penchant for classical feminism. Somewhere there isn’t a high-pitched quaver to travel across voluptuous voids and it makes the populace sad and murky. The change is more in the information than the numbers, the factoids becoming a feature of a condemned octopus quartet. It’s a graspable possum when phasing in and out of the nether plane, it clamps shut at the very prospect of that sacred clatter and clash we mentioned before. It wasn’t brief nor was it a cushioned transcription. The writer, as always, knows how to trash a party with his ethics and acknowledgement of wee hours. He or she won’t leave until you bring out the liquor to the poor and porous. This is commonly referred to as the art community with dashes of thespian thirst. Staying too long keeps the beast from opening his waste paper basket all over the dank and pernicious. Rectal thermometers all round or face the wrath of quills!