06/05/2013 - OUT OF SLIGHTLY ORDINANCE

Out of slightly ordinance, out of ligament pie, out of endurance in all type cases. Out goes the mission of life to preserve the quantum feasibility with nothing more than a sticky back toothbrush and the concertina hand grenade. Lob it forth and present thyself to the goalie and his snuffling hat. There is a roughhouse in his bed, there is a rugged reptile making off with his quilt and all the Egyptian cotton is being eaten. It’s not just an ordinary way out, it’s the simplest. It’s the shades pulling off the face of a cold gentleman with nerdy cheekbones, it’s the sound of a psychology textbook slipping into an ethereal dimension. Iota and ion are married in perfect quasi-scorpion love.  The minister didn’t catch the tie in the end so he couldn’t decide what remained on the ship, it wasn’t his place anymore. Out of the smiling man crossing the ocean floor, out of the silken patter he leaves behind him, out of the calling to morning from the deft eagle of transport. This is gross clucking from destructive whoremongers.

There isn’t a misunderstanding between them, not enough to roll around in the tin can of spastic delight. The darkening hovel of murderous reputability is providing the provided with provisions that will go onto provide, provided that providence shoots the doldrums away. Out of the fridge magnet, out of the decoration, out of the mutual habit to grind teeth to the brittle grunge. The bells are making clitoris membranes fall about in awe, the bells are of course an allegory for anal sex and violent conversation over defenceless pillows. The weepers make the green light stick around without the aid of a marksman’s hometown referee. Watermarks are coming down to be brusque and eloquent to spite the noses of the poet kings. The show is not for the faint-legged or the quibble-challenged. Montgomery Swashbuckling is in fact a valiant company that sells peace of mind and ultra-cool swishy things that go and cut through pharmaceutical curtains. Presence should be known anyway.

The Tao of Erasmus is all self-involved and self-intruding. You can take on the lotus position and try to make use of the yardstick logic but no gnomes are actually calling to him from across the Quiet Vehemence. There are clasps to be waded through, buckles to gripe with. Go downtown and cheers will come out of the woodwork and leave you well and truly tribal. Excommunication is as dry as coffee-spent humour and twice as sharp in the folding cloth of dusk. Wordy exposition can’t possibly save us from trying and crying and whirling underneath the boarder’s patrol. Like Mrs. Thank, it’s a protruding nature to be hazarded with, a gliding walkway that pounds its own paving stone open and apart. Mentally, we always moan to plum obsessions and fair enough fayre to cramp the stylised quick pomegranates. The prison is brave and strange all at once in the bright green. Out of the nature, out of the loveliness, out of the days later.