23/06/2013 - LOQUACIOUS AND FULL OF HOLES

Loquacious and full of holes, we’ve seen so much traffic pass through the baggage holders. They fenced my petty squids with romantic contrivances. I’ve been bruised in the massive cleaning operations. To say that I’ve had enough is to substitute the truth with even more truth spiked in the middle with dead irony. Bricks flying through catatonic patients won’t stop what’s currently ensuing, not even if those patients carried their parent’s fences between their teeth. This collection of fools are gaining too much recognition from the Council of WHATEVERIMMAJEMIMAWIDDLESTICK. At least we know why we’re here and how to contain the problem with Hosannas and various varicose vein howling. It’s relaying really dangerous waves of insubordination in our dashing little town. It’s making the peoples squint at lampposts.

We can call the priests to provide better solutions but what then to do about their Nazareth parlour tricks? They lead with drooling slogans and leave with half-witted stoppers wedged between their motherly dandelions. Our elimination is at hand at the hand stand because of one man and his selection of voracious women: Simpering Neil and the Booby Communications Unit. The stakes they intend to gamble will crush our bedding completely, not even our quilts will be mush it’ll be so dire. The Germane techno beat will wince up the charlatans and pulsate through their inner extremities just in case they make any sudden courteous movements. They broke my member with their sleepless nights and lost ground that is a task that won’t soon be forgiven. Now I go about my day without a suitable weather gauge. Someday I’ll assuage the chains of my undulating wrath with bacon grease and pitter patter paraphernalia. Goodness, the troubles of confused gods and terminally ill titans! They each have distant eyes that winkle in vain if you really must go without ceremony. I suppose I’ll just have to miss you.

Seriously we do not know a touchy argument from a groundbreaking archery challenge. The spinster catches reruns with us every Thrush day and speaks only in the advert breaks like that would somehow dispel the rumour she’s a rude and ugly mincemeat champ. One ancient rite later, we’ll be rid of her entirely like so much love for pet physicality. We loved the girl like she was a puppy; we kept her away from the microwave and made desserts from her nasal hair. Go in peace, we said to her, go fuck a French magnate with his pointy beeping beep beep. Fucking tease. We can rectify her learned nature with a Spanish Omelette or maybe that would be to ideal? The rock stars would be on our case then but, as the scenario pointed out earlier, they’ll be on our case anytime and all the time. Every time might be a tad of a push though: the policy pylon leans and blinks but never leans or blinks. It’s a tampering tutu that won’t stop upgrading through the March Madness. Wheelbarrows are leaking their seminal fluid all over the Tramadol pavement.