04/06/2013 - CAN'T THINK

            Can't think or stroke the nightmares into marketplace saleability. It's difficult to be a difficulty, problematic to be an automatic machine gun of liberated humour. Can't be aged 46 either, it causes a direct line to the back of my hookah pipe  and I'm too tired these days to let it activate with a click of my hip. Fingers are burning and bulging with chemical energy, singing songwriters into fibula seismology. It's a lonely life to be an existent smiley fool with yellowing skin. I'm falling apart leaf by leaf because of the sun dial and all of its oxidised coal mining missions.

            You live for the moment when I get better and direct swans into party-based Reich systems, Fascism is the one fad I never really tried. Concordantly I'll take my feathery biro and rap it a few times against the brickwork of your chin, just in case it does something rotten and unthinkable like leave you on the wayside or misdirect a turnpike through insidious magic. I am exiting through cordite and the red skin is sown into the back of my eyelids, hence the slithering sound whenever I question your heresiarch about pub quizzes. It doesn't take much to soil a decent lady these days, you just pat her on the pass with your pickled penis and then kick her out of a conveniently orchestrated door. The curt response on your jacket is spectacle enough, thank you so very much. I'm going the bonkers way round just to jut the playing field a few times over. It is working, it's working a treat on gays and box office murderers. I've even met a few of each but none of them can shake my hand because I'm ethereal and therefore don't wear culpable gloves. That's anti-Semitism if you do the washing up whilst your back's still turned away. Some call it an art form. I call it worthy.

            Can't hear a damn thing either, whenever it yawns it feels like I'm undergoing a long hard transformation into a high horse comedian. If I stop burping the water bowl will runneth over and my puppy talk will ultimately be for naught. I'm trying my best to channel the dire stems but it didn't really work the first time. Dime a dozen, that's what they say about the specialist swatches and currently I'm inclined to agree. Give me a cold stingy surface any day, give me freaks for company inside a spherical continent, disregard me before I say anything to hurt or harm you beyond the necessary quota. Mother always said treat your people with kindness and they will go on to drive a knife pie between you and yourdilated pupils. In an ideal world, they'd try to convince me that I'm a devil begotten aardvark and therefore not worthy the ochre or the psyche power outage. This is where I end the video with a crash and a game of hoop la. That was the old me, the new me just wants to castrate  the betwixt.