17/05/2013 - 20/05/2013 - I WAS HERE TO CLUB THE MINX

                I was here to club the Minx and to offer the Syrians a membership card in exchange for the head. I wasn't out gallivanting with the surly key rings with all their pet habits and secret atrocities in their safe deposit box. They told me it was a twenty first century thing and told me not to worry about the helix and how it might resolve itself with paper clips and Salvador Dali thumbscrews. The niche isn't open to interpretation and that's why I don't precede my station using each of the tools at my disposal. The interns are locked out and banging at the grown groan gaming castle keep, just in case the knights maybe forgot about their chainmail bits as well as a maiden or two. Either way the fence is drawing attention away from such spectacles and making great parties for the shaky cam dreary. It's a constant redundancy, a constant cheesy treason. No man lives outside anymore, not really, not with their bottom in the air.

 

                To imply the cretin was a chocolaty dessert, she removed her hand cannon and made him maim himself with the wet end. The tail was left on the table, cold and detached, so she used it to tickle blind folk underneath the vulva. It brings up.

 

                I said you play well, despite a handicap or two. I might even follow you to the ends of the earth if you provided a harmonic excuse that aligns each of our narrow boat contraptions at the exact same millisecond. It's all about the execution and you seem to be a proficient killer of tasks. There is certainly an air of Russian about you but not in the way you'd think. In previous years I joined MI6 and got their cream bun service running up to date. I even counselled the icing specialist with my rather heavy clipboard. I sent him off to a monastery to help clear up that foggy cesspool of his, to help him become the prisoner he has always wanted to be. It comes and it goes this sort of helpfulness, it has no evident correlation between time and panic. I'll make it common practice to bring the intelligence up by its ear and give it a good long sharpening. To say that I'm happy is an overstatement.

 

                She wasn't quite as nifty as the Minx but she did know the ins and outs of sexual displeasure. She was a master of flying over the mistress status, a true connoisseur of trumpet solos. She picks her teeth with shuriken and is probably standing over your little sister right now. Clean thoughts.

 

                It was a nicety to see you again. It started with a number on a ticket and now here it ends, with both tits on the kitchen table. Nigerian sweeps are throwing me all over the place to prove a point to my emergency neighbours, that I am fallible and that I do get flatulent. I ran him through with a rudder and then a ladle just to be certain he couldn't get up and mouth off again. This is why dishes are the most applicable ceramic bukake instruments to me, they are a thousand to one and probably won't be churned into necklaces. This life is filled with disillusionment, it makes British Engineers go yellow with marital problems. I'll shut a bladed facility down if only you'll accept me as a toga wearing grab ass family historian. I knew I got that from nana and her selective collection of douche bag trilbies. It's like a makeover and I'm not giving out the chicken just this minute.

 

                You forgot to take these also, the prattle from the edges. Draining the task is an invalid's form of humour, it breaks the wooden legs with graphology and lesbianism. The yobs have strong arguments to make against the dwindling opportunities and they have all been forwarded to you and your family of distributors. This is why the vineyard doesn't work but the arrow arrangement continually changes. The spite is a speck of cereal inevitability. My friend you slipped your mind again, put on a dreadful Irish accent, dressed yourself in sportsmanship. The overall image was opaque and drastic and nothing pleases me better. The wine is a universe of piracy and the glass stood in front of you is more of a vessel out of the dirty old splice party partition. I'll rouse the rabble and tug on the troops just to see that they're relevant in this day and age, unlike the prodding irritability. The communication link is a microcosm of my availability, it is a bridal sweep from wordy retribution. Hoopla gang culture keeps things complicated when you really think about it and stop thinking about the torn troubled men in their top hat sotto voce. I boiled the rice and never thought I would again. What a mistake, you might say!

 

                We're somewhere and going about the day in a topical tropical visitation, going about with a cold rose on each nipple and a dew drop kissing the marked man and all of his words of compatriotism. Dadaism is the crosshairs swilling and trilling over the guard robe in the deft water closet. Yes and yes we said okay. We added thank you as well just for the betterment of humankind and all that jazz. Devices for altruism, that's what they were trying to sell. It worked, of course, or else why would I have so many boxes in the atrium still? It's getting to be quite the trinity, don't you think? Or maybe trilogy is proportionate in this context? I couldn't say and wouldn't feel confident enough to proclaim instead.  The Minx has her gun pressed right up against my pudenda. I'm desperately trying not to figure it out in case the entire scenario turns out to be an orchestral piece. The romance is mush in the cold call of brass. Excuses, excuses. Terrific, terrific. My neighbour is grown.

 

                I didn't come here for meet and greet, I came because they offered me the chance of a wafer thin prospector. Roll those substantial infamies around your tongue until you tug your teeth loose and stop short at the sight of the leggy machine. Flags followed her wherever she went like a pair of binoculars in a box of irrelevant belongings, whispering about preparations and preparing more whispery features. I'll make doubly sure and grab the wrist of her foreman, trebling the campfire promise we made at the foot of the doctor's office. He was a locum and built fortifications to hand stuff over to the fidgeting dairy farmers. Their triad of silver tops raise tentative hands and fling their disembodied ring fingers into the bull's sauntering path. This is panic button territory.

 

                Debilitating, double bill annotating. Salubrious, sell your brie to us. Masticate, mask Ticking Kate. Preordained, preen or Diane ends. Destitute, this is it, toots. Malnourish, my new relish. Oh bladder, oh Benedict. This is the hiss, is the creaking branch foisted into gnarly magazine pouches. Ho, ho, yes.

 

                I keep matters occupied with a harness and thirty eight thousand four hundred and forty four makes of sasquatch appetite depressant. It's a perfect, perfect prefect to be wedded. I'm mast to mast maddening whenever invigilating the Virgo Plain, I am the milk and sugar Goth cart and don't you motherfuckers forbid it. Eh? Eh? The drag is clicking with turpentine bunker treatment as I try to make a home from a thousand garden fences that no sucker wanted to cling onto. They sealed it with their gelatine but never wanted it enough to become ghosts and poltergeists to keep ahead of this girly game we're so poorly marking out. The apron strings are moving in helix patterns while we roast our comic dominance over the parting clouds. It strikes me as complaining but then I hate all forms and methods of announcing one is 'well'. Our yeasty roadside is not very nice for the burning wasteland's schematics, not going to be accepted into the family of future town planning excavations. So go round the back of the sheds, cop off with a ditsy minder and shoot yourself with a butt load of camcorder equipment. It'll put the worst to bed with a donkey punch and perhaps a roundhouse cuddle. Rifle through the leaflets, see that I'm not wrong about all this. So long as it pertains to the money swiftly exiting my back pocket, I know what I'm doing with my runny little mouth. The lips form isles from the waste paper basket of 'save the date' cards and the char grilled kittens master the degree with evident turmoil. Let the sunshine banish your harsh knob and all of its co-conspirators right away before they launch their next attack on your pretty centre gravity. The pelvis holds the evil barrels, the miscellaneous bullet wounds, the partition blinds. The deadly lead does wonders for the barking dog that witters in the bottlenose runway carpet. So okay, come on.

 

                We can't tell you how we're dealing with this bipedal plant spot, we can only reveal that the release date is coming out from the behind of the political hard hat. We cast a vote and the note was dropped on a net and thrown into the calculated definition like some whipping boy being hired out as a venerable prostitute. The myriad is a Pyrrhic Case, a visitor's badge graced by grocery clerks and their deceased clientele. Watch the name change over and over again, watch as Erasmus becomes Emily becoming some sort of dinosaur. Heaven knows what happens to the biting hand. It becomes bitty, I imagine. This entire world is a smorgasbord to me, the sort that hasn't been cooked for eighteen days. The entity formally known as Emily might hold the door open for the steaks and, if so, I'll make an escape then. They'll never witness my daybook's turn as a vigilante, they'll never hearken the poetry in a decent try.

 

                I was here to sell out in an abstract monotony factory, thrusting the old heave-ho pelvis to the grind and grimace of pulverised meat chops. I came down to the production line to chase the Minx and all her tigress measurements to finally let out the universe from its turgid bottle of fragrance. In order to store the scent, I spat into a chain of clatter and chased the ensuing clitoris. The tails were yanked down hard and each of the blowhards revealed themselves by pulling down their makeshift hoods with quaint babyish fingers. It is a little known fact that the scream of a single hair is like a hammer tong to the wax museum: simply not done out of regional courtesy. Mayhem perfects its own plumbing, it changes the clockwork tiller from the left side to the right and over and under again. After a while it burns out the retinas and makes a mockery out of the porcelain rape case. It truly sickens. It sweeps itself alongside and up against the carpet tile and it leaves the place unsightly. How the police prefer it to solving actual crimes in a closed off button merchant community.

 

                That id is truth and lances do become matter transference devices we cannot deny nor would we dare to repeat the misgivings of our cuddly forefathers. The outlying danger is figurative at best, purely a oat in the eyeball of a fading goat breed. Snort the silver and slam down the brakes before the Sons of Sound Pound march out into the shooting fields to let stuff happen to them without resistance. My approach involves a letter opener and a three month old cardigan dumped and soaked in melted cartoon pencil cases. The Minx of course objects to malfeasance of such niggle-like proportions. She might have a viaduct to reel out or a monster's nook to turn over with pie crusting. It depends on the glossy aforementioned lady pit.