05/06/2013 - THERE WAS A SENSITIVITY

There was a sensitivity that lied between us, something to do with the unscrupulous lid and all of its more scientific faculties. There was a place and a time and bit to feed on as the chain span into vitrified patterns of logic, babbling with every shunt of the truck. There was a mind melting into the wilderness, a cognizance that shook the mildew off of my favourite poet. The women were of course ready and the sunlight that splattered between them began a vigil for the colour yellow, a stand-up affair that hesitated every fifty minutes or so. I said sorry and that was all in the garish future. It was a second edition. Can you not see in the madness of the clamped jawbone? The Kurdish Boulevard either?

            This is the old avenue, the old backtrack. Keep walking one hundred and eighty eight miles and cross over to the right hand side. It will pay off like a romantic park bench headed for the chipper. Excuse my dalliance with saleable figures, the waltz is yet to turn up my flagrant collar. This is the way with chess games, the dire need to distract oneself rips apart the trumpets with friendly old waylays filled with creatures born of chicken soup. The ice cream vendor is choking the office with its pennywise diaphragm. I'll be casting away shortly so keep me informed of any unanticipated updates, dear ant people. There will be service tips on the side if you're lucky with the cards.

            It's going to be a prosaic ballistics reports, I can tell you now. There will be glistening platitudes about squatter's rights, chewable chocolate pans, vibrant hand holding and all round good-natured hooliganism. It's an attractive outcome by her standards, her incredibly low and dribbling standards. Backwards compatible mind reading is the answer this afternoon. And for midnight, who can say? The chillers will probably continue to vie for virtuosity, wag their tongues like Ptolemy did in his picturesque getaway scenes. The operation won't just conduct itself as the saying goes. It's an album crammed full of aboriginal jetsetters and spoilt engine parts. That's the way to creep around that smirking elephantine breakfast party.

            Books and books and books and books and because of books we go to books and wear down those books and become those books in speckled party dresses. Ringing out with leisure, draining the due hyphenations. It's a quality that is often niggled.

            IT'S TIME TO BE FORBIDDEN! Have me in your tested reflexes, in your valid vial of talking thunderstorms. Twenty hours to go if you lose the lot in that dumpster over there, the one we used to call  a skip or an EEK. Will you try the convenience of air? Can you let your mother know you're trying it as well? She has a powerful ire and won't do no irking for no goddamn learning mentor folk. Sheet. It's a low-down form of support, not the kind of webbing you'd want for your kin.