10/06/2013 - IT'S TIMID, THEY SAY

            It's timid, they say. It's like its own little game of conkers off of the Arc de Triumph. It's positively sadistic in the way it gnashes its insides outdoors. The dam it fills with flying fucks and tiny violins could rectify our state of the union if the floodgates were just to open ONCE. There is honey filling its ears, the gloop of a thrifty giant bee with a penchant for neckerchiefs and trial and error processing. SEE HOW IT HIGHLIGHTS THE TRAFALGAR YO-YO. SEE ME IN THE OFFICE DOWN THE LANE, HOLDING HANDS WITH IT UNDERNEATH A Welsh dining table. Watch the scandal burn itself with stomach acid and righteous fornications. The electric dustbin runs on outs own chickenfeed, the excess it pumps out whenever wheeled towards the elderly and handicapped. It frequently tries to play mother and percolator.

            It couldn't save me if it even gave a damn. All it ever seems to do is knit together plastic bags so that they can translate toilet districts from sweet corn beetles. TEMPORAL VIOLATIONS AND FLIMSY SERENDIPITY. Take out serenity and all you have is dip. Lighting that particular rocket is a hazard waiting to be talked about and possibly reported through broadsheet media. Before it can though it needs a cynical haircut and a brow-beaten carnival all of its own. When the bullet finally hits the face it should be a blemish of perfection, a stoked official tickled by laminated exercise regimes. It's puppy revels in the inept altitude of rustled feather and ruffled paper bags. My knife plunges in exactly the same way that my plunger knives. Such disquieting games of handstands in Madrid. It creates its own leniency out of pure unadulterated convenience. See them? THE GOATS. They guard the foreign secretary with eavesdropping parties. Collect a hat on the route out and it should do some harm to Britain. Politicians guarantee this when they're safe at home, tucked up behind their fleet of cats. I feel let down for the exact same reasons that it feels cutesy.

            Flagging down the courtiers won't do much good, not while the shingles still reserve their precedent, their cut of the elapsed lands. Those who own my obsession should be primed for the lunging. Those who possess my obsession, on the other hand, should BOW DOWN AND WRITE COMEDY WRITERS OUT OF EXISTENCE. This is a disconnection for the inevitable listener that travelled down from Kent. What will you do, you Men of Trade, with your pockets of lemonade and half-arsed doodles. Rarely, is the correct challenge. Give me five seconds to be excellent in the lover's Proustian outlook. The madam speaks of dazzle in Singapore and walnuts in Lucrezia. She's Erasmus' new squeeze and has half a second to go before the eagle cries out and brings him to an enchanted funfair. He was promised a sandwich and, I can tell you now, that he won't be happy. It saw to this by divesting all responsibility to the guards.