15/06/2013 - AND ARE YOU MADDENING IN CIRCLES?

                And are you maddening in circles? Actual circles that wind round the front and pang at the back? Are you a rogue ripe for the firing squad? Are you free and easy in the taciturn spherical alliance? Could it be? Could it be? Could it be that my mother is your chiropractor? I have some thumbs of disrepute to fire underneath the beachside trollop. The results will be bloody and broody and perhaps a tad Amish around the elbows. Could they tell us about the summer? Some more about the summer? Could they clatter spoons against hefty plates then leave the rest of the palate to our duty list? I might just cross my salad dressing with the sundered cumulus. Take a chance, as they always seem to say on my birthday. I'm going upstairs in a minute.

            They felt my son like a sword in a short man's chest. It was sorrowful on the countertop all the livelong day and no amount of chicken stock could roast the condition to a twinkle. This is the sport of walking in virulent masses. The only way is to contort and convert assiduous monstrosities to become their very own defeatist haymakers. Saxophones are dipped in permanent solutions and then caked in jazzy suits of leather just to make room for the madams with glasses. It's much easier to calculate crossing when you're already on the side of the crying and cared for. We call them the uninitiated, they constantly deserve a spank across their nose. Light little snares cram the lane from the gutters down to the embolism of emblematic tampering. It's a courteous excuse to use and not one for the proboscis to handle on its own. Could we start again with the limey please? He sees to know all the answers and wouldn't be completely averse to footbath technology in primetime television.

            What's that in your hand? Is it a light snack? Is it a turbulent quip to shamble through my essential oils? Is it a pattern? Is it a pattern too clunky to finger in dazzling bosom? Is it? Are they? It is an artisan perspective that asks the obvious questions. It is a maker's hand that boils ladle handles. Were it to change, who or what else would you put a price on? Gallows humour, very likely. They call for that sort of thing in wrapping paper tournaments: it makes the whole experience that more fruity. Who wants lover's tiff music that radiates so pinkly? The ravens have bound the very thought to my ample brain and now the ducking stool just won't cut it. Take my word, treat it to a wonderful night of dancing and cocktail dresses. Keep things low-cut and Oedipal. It strums and strums and leaves patron saints all up in my belly. Watch out below, when it burns it just flows out of me! With wild abandon, yes that is right. Make a cycle out of this scratchy channel that lurks and rattles my unclenched doors.