31/07/2013 - THIS PROGRAMME MAY CONTAIN IMAGES

This programme may contain images of a flashy and superior nature. Loosen your sword and let’s get that quilt off of you. For once in your life don’t stare at your malformed toes and just let the virus run up your bootlaces. The water is for good behaviour only so you don’t get it. Instead we’ll lop off your ear and lock you out and rip your every corner and crevice under the tutelage of wondrous doctors. You’ll have to do a lot, get through an awful lot to go swimming with Abigail. She’ll show you the harrowed albatross and make you remember going to bed last night. Shall we let the dogs out for the Grand Celebration. Something is indeed very wrong with you and begging the frightened royal for a smidgen of reality is like polishing rocks with weekend material. The entertainment just keeps wriggly and the red television ticks over in the meantime. You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, your own grandson.

                Who knows what we’ll find in microbes? Maybe crunchy nuts and albino chest hairs. The kittens will yelp and the puppies will read Proust for production value. Pressing oneself against the leathery wall is a form of scientific discovery but not one rightly recognised as being worth a damn or as clean as chiropractic tools. What do you have there? Are you certainty? Please be serious with this insertion, the FBI are watching and cracking down hard on the better people, the healthy genius kind. According to the evidence, wombats push him underneath the fingernails. Just like everybody else. Just like everybody else. Dementia. Dementia. Will we have a brain scan? Can it be worth all the hobbledehoy? The rigmarole? The Lady of my Trauma seems to think so. She goes around in leopard prints and wears shaded bifocals for the romantic overtures. The resemblance is ungainly, tampered with dodged bullets and a detrimental sari. We’ll pick up your doggedly handsome length of time and take care of it like it was plush.

                Let’s try the standard psychopathology tests, with clock hands and fabled bosoms. Draw me a son of a bitch and let loose the least of your problems on the superhuman word hunt. The overwhelming evidence is gold and begins and ends with tear stains. The opportunity to influence the spool of trajectory spites my reputation with grief. If they do find him guilty of mollycoddling, rehabilitation might prove to be a source of confidence. Let’s fail them both so profoundly, our spirit gum and our jimmy. Most anglers lure pretty hair colours with DNA strands and rub their findings in the face of the gum and the jimmy. Neurologically I’m a bit of a bastard, not to be trusted with alien technology or orange jump suits. As for zoot suits, I could develop Yiddish tendencies but that’s all. Move me to a medical hall and I’ll work on bungling your surgery. Every fibre of your being will become blighted confession.

30/07/2013 - THE 'THEY' YOU SPEAK OF

                The 'they' you speak of, the 'they' in question are in fact just 'them'. It saves time to think that way and be operative in that condition. We think that 'we' would be too good for a cornfield such as yourself, all filled with nightly courtships as you seem to be, but at least we recognise straightening up as a viable option. Old men turn especially nasty on this subject, we show them enough hospitality so that they might understand our instructions accurately whilst inside the big house. They continue their solvent celebrations with doctored tonics run with the monsieur out towards the daddy code. The responsibility comes to rest its tired eyes and clean the lemony shoots. It's this responsibility that saves pretty women from a fate worse than privacy clauses. One woman in particular is a bitch to get away with, a young lady with a great deal of oomph. No matter where you find her it's a soggy centrifuge and the guitarist is the only bookish bloke who knows the curt cultish directions. It's a pleasure to meet a fellow German spokesperson in this dramatic aspersion. In times of spatial awareness the fully erect friendship does little in the way of tyrannical telling. Get your big pretty piece of seaweed out of my fine specimen of a face, they'll start inventing nicknames for all three of us champions. They call the other ones neophytes but I'm missing the panache, the right as rain to become anything more than an accountant.

                First things first the penguins get along famously with native tongues and the other sell-outs of conversationalists. The gun runs because it knows that the candlestick won't last the event horizon's roll call. You wouldn't lie to me to get all comfy cosy, would you? The Eskimo pie makes me inclined to generous and filled with obscene clarity and little shreds of charity. Any day now they won't sell the old men down the walkway with their persuasive techniques and splendid butlers. Black mayonnaise. Black mayonnaise answers through this hot topic and absolutely nothing else. You might find this interesting and perhaps medicinal. Then again you might not and the rats won't get asked back for next year's birthday treat. After dinner we shall see. After the snake oil gives up its friendly games, I imagine. Then again who wants to be exclusively angelic? Let's not float about the discrepancy, let's joust straight for its heart.

                When the harvest comes they tell me to chat exclusively about charter accountancy. Like I have time to be so rigorous or fatuous or genetically impaired. In this round we'll find out what you found out and are trying so hard to keep hidden from the badges on our chest. These badges are shiny and the leader's favourites so don't expect things to go nice and smooth. We'll take you all the way to Edinburgh and then slit your corridor with bureau scissors. Coincidence or not, we'll return to our roots inevitably.

29/07/2013 - I HAPPEN

            I happen. You go. We go. We rush. We plush. You plump. I frump. She's up. He's up. They're down. They're down. They're all the way to Hades with anchovies. That's no lie.

            The barman however has reason to dispute the mythic proportion with his Irish dialect, he has a Northern brogue and doesn't do vowels above board. It is much safer to be a censored genius than a floppy-mouthed fool. He knows full well how far just saying yes will get him, all the way to Hebden Bridge and perhaps back if he is lucky. This isn't his soap though. They've been keeping the truth from him carefully and by degree.

            The designs make us a little bit better and a little bet bitter like a veteran veterinarian vetoed for Deuteronomy. Sometimes the daylight saving goes beyond saving and enters a state of wandering the high lofty plains of your underbelly and beyond. It goes like this: you pass a stone, we choke a swan with it and then we enter the local school playground. The children pet the carcass and the Board of Education gets all up in our grill about tainting childhood and spiting the neighbourhood watch scheme. We'll whistle the start of the usual theme and they'll carry it out to its foregone conclusion. Not much changes except the channel and the frequency. You don't flick these days, you flip.

            Oh but the cycle doesn't stop there. The wheel goes all the way round to kick itself in the unperturbed anus and thunders across the spokes like so much forceful piety. At least the allusion bought too many games so we have that to do. What are you doing to the human brain? Are we treating it in episodes? Turkish? Felicitous? My grandfather would like to know so he can prep the props department and then make his peace with unlimited explosives. It might help the impact of our quest. The arrows come out in scribbled flashes because God intends it, just as America intends Sri Lanka to be Swedish. It's a mission of flack, a task for sketch comedy with nuggets of improv wedge in between. The cracks relate Ferris Wheel experience so please don't rush them away. Slugs may well get us started but the usher has to snatch them up sometime, he has a job to do after all and he has to be perfectly sturdy about it. You don't want to make him lose his job do you? It hurts to be effeminate in this world.

            Palaeontology, Geography, Biography, Serendipity, Cosmology, Death From Above, Velocity, Viscosity, Delaying Inevitable Fortress Construction, Making Faces, Scientology, Biology, Shoot-em-up-ology. Analogy too. Who would dare to hack things nicely? To hack pink in this world is to conquer with a feathery glove, it is ineffective and far too conical to ward off limey hordes that way. The main boss is sure to pull the seeing is believing card and birthday invitations will slowly whimper out. It's my birthday today. A big unit.

28/07/2013 - ACCREDITED TO ONE ROMANTIC MOMENT

Accredited to one romantic moment, the cave. They have these machines trapped inside the tank which is itself stuck inside Asian culture and shreds of subculture. Seeing the Hot Air Balloon Wendigo master the technology makes sense because he has more people behind him, more circumstances riding on this. His father is out of commission currently, set aflame by flaky debris and unseemly soldiers that duck. Y’know, real nit-picking. It’s time to draw out the galvanised salmon regardless.

 

I love talking about prison mostly because I’m not there. Wouldn’t that be dark if I went there? They might have lights turned off but that really depends on the quality of fighting and welfare invasion tactics. This sort of business is itching for espionage, the tricks and tramps people play. I would say they’re getting smarter but then I’m only just coming around. There is always a form of destiny, dude. There is always another one next in line to the zoology course. I’ll respond to this power shift by drinking the bloodline and ingesting and diffusing it into my redemptive epicentre. They hope to see me again they say but how can I keep my uncle in a jail cell otherwise? He adopts the will of killer bees far too easily, the hornets he tends to just question. In most other cases this could be repetitive writing but failure limps towards gentle outsmarting. Could we cuddle the show with payback? Could we apply the long shore drift with a difference this time? We’ve built up enough energy to combat the writing on the wall. We didn’t put it there so we must strut out the defeat as the adults are being tortured. It’s too much to expect a neater setting but I’m curious to see how good you are at going in a certain direction. You seem to work well with repetitive astronauts and their diphthongs. Let’s be painful with the element, let’s fail outright with mischievous confrontation. You just have to live with it like you do your parcelled liver. The heart seems more important but at least your switch isn’t too obvious. You went with the healthier-looking avatar this time: good achievement, fine achievement.

 

The whole show is becoming a chase sequence. The whole show is now being run by the Hot Air Balloon Wendigo because it generally turns out good in the end for all the children watching. They know how well thought out the problem with the parentage and the banishment that tends to follow. Why was she leaving? Why was my mother leaving? Let’s get ploughing with cool reading; life is a place where people go when it’s time to wrap up. His appearance is peaceful like corners with heartless foreshadowing. There is legitimate scurvy aboard this wandering night wish. Call me simple again and the super villains could recoil occupied Wall Street. Call me anytime and the justification of events shall never be good enough for your fuzzy viewpoint. The point is pretty effective and no simplification in sight.

27/07/2013 - IF IT WOULDN'T BE TOO MUCH TROUBLE

            If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like to strangle you. It's not a mark against your people's name, it is merely an attempt at reformation, at renovation but definitely not tracking. These are snippers, chipper chattering snipper snacks and they're not green just yet. The ripening comes in value gasps, gentle and infrequent as God would have it if he weren't tightening his whiskers with abandoned lunacy. I implore you with plastic droplets, I teach you with the happiness of suffered children. Little left-handed lovers often mistake my official documents for press release material and, as a result, I'm a constant source of pleasure for comical poets vacationing in raided limb stations. At least we didn't let the cancerous action pustule in, he might have infected our infestation otherwise and thrown back our production costs by thirty thousand fold years. I'm going about it all wrong, your life that is.

            Get yourself some coffee, crack a can and split the prim toboggan with unlikely methods. She was really rather professional and fabled in the stars when bloated passage became a thing of the evening. It was beautifully fucked and princely and right up the alley street of correct change. Staying sane means not coming in the kitchen, not even daring to enter it or dilly dally or nothing too prescriptive. Hit me with your best sidewinder and we'll test that particular hypotheses with grim gusto and good gouging. The world needs less crime through those specific methods. Not these specific methods, the one's over there beside the plant pot armada.

            We all want the goodies for our small parts, we only want a decent amount of protection and perhaps a written declarative to state this in a fancy-lined tricky manner. There are no consequences, no drama, no precursor to the finale. It makes for a playful tune but not one that sits well on any bought and paid for sofa complex. The tap snags and snarls and makes our ragtime into splendiferous dog ears. Goodness me, goodness glee, goodness for the sake of sanded-off shark salutes! I do suppose that the only waxwork business that remains in this tumult of a kingdom relies too heavily on headphone blasting technology but, as of this moment, all of our shares are flooding into the rock of aged turkey. Gobble goober! Go places and snog the host before he commands your head from your sheltered shoulders.

            Oh but you are a dearest snob if not the dearest snob who dares to keel over and spurt tantric saliva on horny-tailed bodices. The headbands are stark in their defence of messenger suicide tapes, they will ride the evidence all the way to the calculus tournament. These knockers keep knocking no matter who's in charge and who ties the boots to the sweated guests. Before we can even get away with that sort of shit we need to become more forgiving of ancient practises and rituals like scratching backs and playing tennis on the green.

26/07/2013 - TRY ROCKETS

            Try rockets, if you would be so kind. Treat me with some degree of rebellious respect, it can be automated or just plain old symbolic. First you need to take out my weapons and other main functions and then put this factoid on a bumblebee. This puts some of the shit in order and gladdens the peach-smelling stuff. What are you implying? What is your mistress implying? Clothesline! Nothing's here, old bean! We're just looking for civilian trouble. They extort the gloating capacity to the point of wrinkle effect and then they up and leave with all the jewellery, all the finery, all the livery. Skaters turn on female rocks with fixed oxygen that goes instantly faster than light. What we're doing is crewing a survivor with gnats and pasty flatulence births. The entire game is text-based and doesn't deserve the fighter instinct or the intravenous cave. Fuck them all off.

            It nails the security camera with caches of fiery excerpts and palsy owls. The sparrows laugh and death lurks in its honed cupboard. Meanwhile the IQ raises dramatically and its prospects become prey to large insects. I was still dying in the hull maintenance department, becoming a hero of rum. Medicine could be easily figured out if I were a chick but I'm not so I'll suffer in science, I guess. They get everything back and give their hunger some assistance through the feedback of former assistants to band aid emperors. We need to become both the arsehole and the asshole. THIS IS IMPERATIVE. GOING OFFLINE. STOP REMINISCING.

            At least it's good to think about the pornography that awaits us at the end of the final jump. The fleet have kindly provided our imminent fall with plenty of wank material, especially for the colossal inclusion process. We make men know the period pains of yore, we teach them how to store stoic party hats in the fat folds of nebulous rot. Space cops knows when the beacon needs to be shot and orchestrate their fazing system accordingly. The grants are shifting the windshield well into the sequel and then the prequel or, as it is known among the fan circuit, that fucking prequel that we'll crimp straws over for the rest of our bearded pusillanimous days. I'm afraid I can't hear the 'we' in your words anymore. Now our feature is falling into 'our' feature and that leaves us rustled.

            The orange oaky doors make tibula and fibula out of captaincy. It does mean changing the bulb but we'll make the squares as they are commended into eternity. Oh the siesta. Tomorrow even! HOW MANY WIVES DID YOU MENTION? AND BEFORE THAT? My crikey lud. Engage reheat again if you haven't already, I need a bathhouse pause to help me concentrate and perhaps a shot of juice to spruce up the follicle production. It's flat, so flat, absolutely flat and it keeps falling out if the other stuff gets to be a problem. Glory be, as they say. These tumours.

25/07/2013 - YARN PLAYS

            Yarn plays in accordance with marketing poles. Yarn burns to the credited touch, to the dream-come-reality, to the real estate of seven hundred million. The witches made the yarn boundless and engorged in its own stammering stamen. The witches gathered about their cauldrons to issue fines to the living and still gather to this day though mostly to aggravate skin irritation for political figureheads. These haggard hags believe in stability and municipal dial tones that must be heard purely out of a sense of protocol and accepted nuisance. Culture is not actually a big part of the yarn, it is a snagged loose thread in the shape of several snares. Decades of scientific stomping and a wide range of spectacle have tried to make heads or tails of the yarn but it ululates in its own selfish, laughable way.

            This is the new romance: a boy and a girl at the foot of a chipmunk's bed. The bed is indeed oversized and creaky and the couple are not aware of the clock ticking obscenely in the background. They are waiting to be overcome by furry malnourishment, desiring the short and quick slash across the lower portions of their united stomach. They are thrashing their patience with tonight's retribution, they are feeling the chipmunk's teeth sink into their respective neck muscle. They have cockle shells. They won't call the police because they have their cockle shells. They refuse to call home because they have their cockle shells. It'll make matters significantly more minty fresh and perhaps a little stilted in places.

            The importance of seeing the prostitute in the girl is becoming paramount to the training course in Left-Hand Roaming Aptitude. She does not wear street clothes nor does she give money back for the right moment but she is undeniably a prostitute. Cogito ergo sum only with more mascara. Meanwhile the boy is a reliable biter, a toothy dictator-in-training who is momentarily inhibited by his wish to see the prostitute naked against her rules. The acne is the one remaining blockade between truth and fantasy here. The love is not love, it is a charged beam of good feeling that's blown in two directions because of two hands at the hilt. Their timid wash is coming to an end and soon they'll have to revert to their ugly mastery of social norms. The chipmunk will conveniently forget the vows they spread and return to reading about the history of the witches' yarn. The yarn binds all things except the prostitute and her biter, that passion comes from hellish territory.

            The chipmunk wraps itself in plaintive sheets and thumbs the 100th page corner. It carefully folds its bottom lip beneath its teeth and runs a claw along their margin to tear the yellowing paper. The chipmunk is an extract reader, has a short attention span but an intelligent sense of history. It has paid its dues and now just wants to hide between the pillows and forget about all the hand holding.

24/07/2013 - THE DEMOLITION

            The demolition, the demonstration, the demonstrative, the demonic, the demo. The all-round demo. Aww heck, this is one of the oldest applications to be applied to tons and tons of irate salesmen. Who would want to see games coming out with handicaps all the time? The continued folding of the past just seeks to oscillate the present fabric. This dribble is all about growing, about enemies climbing out of the plastic works and expecting their motivation to be there right in front of them. Some of them aren't even spatially aware so that's unfortunate. We prefer to think of it as sensual but we're all just sensual creatures on this side of the hyperbolic fence. It's upsetting to have all this inspiration and not being able to wield it around like a battleaxe on the feckless numbered ones. They are ants in tinkle type hinterland with messianic whistles ploughing through laptop mania and the honest digits. We'll make it up ourselves, the journey, the bounty.

            It takes all sorts of sadistic kinds to grind up the platonic drive with About Turn Tuesday renditions. Yeah. Yeah. Steam. Yeah. We are the source in all the world, we are the jobless accidents of baggy ducks. Wilting wedding cakes are just not clear enough to cut ketchup in this paisley parsley. Press your ear against the bonnet and say what in a thousand different accents from dead languages. One day we'll take them back from her and leave the curtain closed. You young people wouldn't understand the magic needed to alter the different layers of veils. Projecting bombs with sweetened figures makes the raise go on and on and on all the way to the fucking end of sailing. It seems to be real but remains as blind as sneezing with ponytail people.

            We could always try another place, we'll try another place please. Just for the bonus, just for the fuggy retry. All along the compass stats are sprouting and spouting needles from fat plugged-up lips. The compass can be found in all types of dingy areas, getting progressively less interesting with each seam of a step. The electrified machete is for show, to make the leader look badass in different forms of public opinion. Nurses have been chosen to break things up like dinosaur velocity, break it up into plain parts of misconceived totality. Pinch the corners like you would your earthly fruit, make pretend you are rams discovering the benefits of backdraught. We set the sails, you devolve into primitive ninjitsu. Knives will be drawn in amazing stories and raised to pierce the lifeblood of fiction. It's meant all the way from fault to faulty. It's great to become a talking horse provided that the studio audience spites it's Slavic salesmen. Nobody wants the secret, it's a scream for change and a hint at the tremor of future carnivals. They are destined to join ropes to slash the rafts from the docking yard, to sit down and do black geography. At least we feel the warmth of meaning.

23/07/2013 - THIS STRIKE OF MINE IS MIGHT

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22/07/2013 - GAMUT

Gamut is for all the stories she neglected to throw out of the pastiche.

Gamut is for being proud of all the friends achieved during Christmas specials.

Gamut is far from giving in to pride.

Gamut is slamming the drudgery into American shtick, nice and squirmy.

Gamut is fuzzy.

Gamut is a frenzy of Californian proportion, fancy that.

Gamut is actor/producer/director credit but not writer because that would invalidate his creative juices.

Gamut is around and around and around and around the stormy drain darling.

Gamut goes around the Satanic gargled storyline with accentuated villains.

Gamut prizes the doctorate of his historical setting.

Gamut involves a healthy amount of research minus salad tongs.

Gamut splits the Papadum like a worldwide fiddle.

Gamut rained for half a century when you weren't even born.

Gamut dazzles the revelry with the enemies' flashy badges.

Gamut goes out of its way to live in the moment so that he can stare at the standard agency.

Gamut is an adjective.

Gamut combines the old man and his lawnmower.

Gamut larks about in khaki pants.

Gamut makes for a fine letter in a citadel prison.

Gamut lies dreaming with imposition nestled between its shoulder blades.

Gamut marks the passage of every living sedimentary beast.

Gamut crosses the plant with its own incessant farce.

Gamut is a galaxy.

Gamut constantly finds itself in fuddy duddy holes.

Gamut is Jewish in its talents.

Gamut has a question from the floor.

Gamut wants to be specific but is just too minor.

Gamut gives in.

Gamut likes addiction.

Gamut hosts horrific hate parades as wholesome whores heap up on the harlequin haste.

Gamut loses itself with carnivorous magic.

Gamut finds itself with comicality and French footsteps.

Gamut winds down the window.

Gamut winds down the window.

Gamut winds down the window.

Gamut gladdens the herpes.

Gamut layers the old man with wedding invitations.

Gamut lies dreaming with imposition.

Gamut planes down the window sill.

Gamut parties with cricketers.

Gamut slaughters umpires.

Gamut is a flurry.

Gamut is directorial to a crumpet.

Gamut is a fabulous landscape to review the Writer's Workshop wrangled down to the prehistoric bullion of gold.

Gamut arrived from Crete.

Gamut likes the master plan but opts for the stammer.

Gamut flips eulogies whenever the affectation walks through the entire panel thus far.

Gamut is alternative like a cleaned up potato.

Gamut wears reeking fabric.

Gamut runs expletives with old calculators.

Gamut spanks hard.

Gamut talks talkies.

Gamut says wowser.

Gamut gets deeply personal and involves the dragged and bedraggled temporal scones with final expression and appropriate movements from thereon.

Gamut makes twenty something to be celebrated.

Gamut respects the idiomatic lisp of agriculture but doesn't find it in it's heart to forgive the wake-up call.

Gamut writes life for itself.

Gamut stifles the sales figures with blameless corruption.

Gamut makes for good swag.

Gamut autographs the sharp end.

Gamut autographs the sharpened end.

Gamut tastes of graphite.

Gamut eats punk culture.

Gamut struggles on the chains.

Gamut taxes.

Gamut.

Gamut.

Well.

21/07/2013 - ULTIMATELY THE PERPETRATOR

Ultimately the perpetrator was duped with deep holes and fantastic progression. Eventide came in dribs and drabs of ineptitude and deficiency and other fish oils. They came to hunt the perpetrator with their mealy-mouthed gusts of rectal integrity, their shunting obsessions with railway disasters and their layers upon layers of computational elephantine powder. The perpetrator jukes and jives around these temporary pains and flows down the curtains of his own spirit of adventure; he becomes a malformed transcendental ball of sprockets and wisteria. The trail of course turns cold and shatters its own paving stones with eerie precognitions of direct hits and solid effort. The clouds ahead stir up the musicality of this dank moment, choosing the form of an angered policeman with a truncheon at the ready but in the background. The perpetrator winds up his karate chop function and lashes out at the mirage whilst humming a tuneless theme song for window shopping. He rips up thousands of brown weeds with a pinch of his toes and scatters them in his hazy stride. His behemoth moniker weapon blows the mystery down in one fell swoop which he then goes on to sweep under the impending rock slide. His wife returns home and chastises him for not defending the children in their Polish Nightmare Schools. He squabbles with her about the distinct lack of butter in the fridge and shuts the door on his own dart collection to emphasise the point of his anger. She just laughs at him and carries out the promises of her father to burn down every bookstore in the local area so that it might slash the perpetrator in two, leaving only a purple thing and a traitor to divulge the universe and the contents of his heavy luggage. She takes the traitor away to see the doctor and leaves him in adequate company. The traitor kowtows to all the medical equipment and even a few of the doctor’s pristine pickled nurses, set high atop his chalky shelves. This professional is a psychopath with lemon grafted to his every sensitive pore, he is a troubled carton of short-fused equations and lycanthropic synapses. The traitor promises the doctor that he will trap his wife for future reference and bring her best bits back to the doctor, namely her thighs and eyebrows. The doctor grins but brandishes a bladed stethoscope anyway. The traitor calls out for the purple thing and the purple thing comes crashing through the wall bars bearing the insignia of The Woeful Chicken Soup. They slice the doctor from armpit to cockpit and remove his capability to digest food without the aid of pork scratching crisps. They leave with eleven children.

The purple thing and the traitor walk out and it’s Eventide again. The purple thing promises to stick only to the crowded areas of the city while the traitor makes a vow never to steal sneakers without strict permission from God. One leaps into the air, the other slithers. They never touch again.

20/07/2013 - THOUGHTS TURN TO HESITATION

                Thoughts turn to hesitation and the punch comes in between. Let's all sing along for the runt's reality - it's only partially mine these days. Strictly speaking, emptiness is easily vanquished with admission to the league of the moving conscience. Capitalisation comes much later on in the process so please don't expect too much from the saleable dance.  We're just thankful to still be in business after all these years of hardship and foxy one-liners. It's the nonchalance that really kills the senses, not to mention the wallet too. How am I doing for ironic hypocrisy? Still chewing on the gauntlet but ah well.

                Meanwhile the friendship between our two distinguishable friends, Tammy and Erasmus is blossoming into something rarely orgasmic. The tapping and the wrapping and the sapping are all scripted in the orange volume, the one wedged underneath your desk lid. Pull it out or pluck it, it's always going to be at your own peril. There's nothing yellow about romance but Tammy and Erasmus do seem to be getting paler outside each other's company. It's special like a pencil dipped in ink and thrown into a quiet cat's hidden cove. The dead-eyed mass of life proceeds to grind our two lovebirds down into a fine hand-holding mush of lost sea puns. Prepare the union - that time, that time, that time is curling its toes again. It's a touch metaphysical once again.

                The bearded dental Augustine cartel is transferring and outsourcing its methods of speaking to ancient African tribes in the hopes that their spears will trounce the dead air before the caller finally hangs up for good. It's fragrant, made of the flimsiest peach extracts from the bottom of the widest ocean liner. Could you ever forget the captain's jowl? It was all beady and warring, rather unnecessary in its own way. Somehow we made a priceless heirloom moot and that's no small feat, it's a pounding of epic proportion. For once I use epic appropriately, I still refuse to even touch legendary. Aside from the obvious of course, the words are touching up the make-out peaks of the world, spreading monolithic party tricks through osmosis of the liver. Trivial but adequately impressive.

                We mustn't be too hard on Erasmus for taking Tammy for granted, she is a tad on the short side and as a result hates to tap dance. Erasmus has a growing fondness for tap dance and as a result is completely unaware of how taxing it can be for loved ones without happy feet. It breaks family's apart, that sort of business, it revokes memories into the Lazy Susan of centurion existence. As the greens go for the habitats of small woodland creatures, all we are left with is the possibility that charm isn't as cut-up as it allows itself to be. The walls are squeezing the edges out of the kinks and chinks so the only way out is through osmosis again. Hold hands with Tammy: she knows the way out.

19/07/2013 - IT'S NOT BIRTHING RIGHT

                It's not birthing right, it's riding out the bomb with exact zero so that you'll become unstoppable and remain unstoppable. Otherwise there is a limit to your vision. Jesus compares your evolution to a doe falling over rosary beads, swimmingly. It looks nice and, in doing so, is positively distracting. Come along now, my dear commandment, your hair floats like an archer's in the materiel. Mix up the signals for fourscore years and that shit will happen to you. How do you like the plain supernatural mania I'm spewing from my bile? It's so bad, I agree but I've got to get to you for your to understand the doorstop. I'll help you up at least.

                He won't, the man in the peaking darkness. He makes Hawaii into its own dramatic interpretation, bladed and fruitful and powered by flammable teeth. The message on the gums is a blistering one, like a motorbike sliding by in the creepy malt water. It's your tour and you come to do what you want with it, he won't stop you. I might though simply because the pigs and hogs and critics are squealing for the toast at the party they were never invited to. It almost makes me apologetic in its stubbly self-made way. I get trapped, embedded within the political undercurrent and end my days with salad and crime novels.

                How these actors do so well with the Spanish is beyond my mere mortal landscape. How they constantly strive to provide plot points in the adversity of simpering invasion is baffling to say the least. Can you remember where half the deities came from? They took their theta polls and planted them into the blindside of a small Israeli woman's faux passport. It was an act of revenge that neither party knew about or even understood. Instead they mumbled something about semblance and dazzling video effect and split before the eruption began interrupting the sorting and the folding. West is diabetic for 'out of here' apparently so let's explore that theory with hats on and instruments in check.

                The president sends her regards of course, not that the pomp is worth the ceremony nor is it outsourced to anyone Mongolian. This is a problem to throw in disrepute and an ongoing issue with dialect, not our dialect but someone's convoluted world of regionalisms. They snapped and continue to snap up the STOP and CLEAR signs with ingratiating grimaces tucked up under their armpits. There is slovenly and then there is slovenly. Keep up like the leaky little kelp you claim so vehemently to be. It's neither cosy nor primate but at least the claws retract in an old-fashioned olfactory sort of way. Just a snarl and a bit of a patter and that's your daddy's brother on a bicycle again. Is it his bicycle? Only you can say, I'm being serious here. You didn't remember to save your documents before and now you're in this situation. There will be no zip line pleasantries in this day and age.

18/07/2013 - THE RUINATION OF THE RUM POSSIBILITY

                The ruination of the rum possibility hurries us to act in blatant defiance of this faulted system. It may be a gentle pool for the time being but it will soon twist and contort itself into a vile heist machine: a churning, whirligig of foul talk and wounded animals. If we become anymore jaded to this truth we'll reach the high note and morons will wait at the end of comic worry.

                You would have managed better if I asked you why. Why did you orchestrate a tour around the nape of her tribulations? It makes her feel mucky and unanswerable, it hurts me to think of such a prized member of our trust feeling that way. I insist that you explain to me what she has done to frustrate you so and then I'll decide if you need the bread to carry on. Peter, John and James are all keeping the beehives in check but for how long in this railing climate control? Moons are toothless and the rest of the skies are too distant to borrow a cup of possibilities from. I am a broken man cluttering up the hallway of gamey misfortune. I am just a broken man.

                What do you mean by that? Thanks for the ask, I'll address the issue with a bit of my own brand of trouble. I live in a state of constant coolness, a self-perpetrated condition of racy chills charging and roaming about my innards. They explained to me, the doctors that is, that I am in fact a talk show host willing my audience into existence. Otherwise they're nonexistent. I'm actually not wholly abhorred because of that. The real and honest rage comes from those who plunge musical direction into torrents of abstract thinking. They want to eat my refrigerated innards like a suave cyclist does his quiche.

                There are always those who seek to stop our flow, to revert our mind chips to the point where we were all entirely dependent on the faulted system and thereby couldn't see the majority of its faults. Oh we saw the faults that concerned us, the rationing of orange juice and the robe policy for guardians, but we were complacent and malleable. Now my brain exceeds the size of the red sky, it bloats with horror at the prospect of another forty million years in hyperspace without a clue to carry us to Point G. The caricature of me now is so vocally racist, I am forced to be a good guest for Rome.

                We need him back, the Waxy Monk. The Waxy Monk has our just desserts wrapped up in dinner suits and flocking about the place with mild damnation. We need him to crush the Meta-Caesar with noticeably salacious conduct. So you talk to me, you kindly scum, you spill your madness out first and then you tell me why we are seeking in the wrong direction. We'll shatter your king yet, his harmless flogging is claiming our aching back as its own produce.

17/07/2013 - HUMMING ALIKE

            Humming alike. Tiramisu and tapioca. Padlocks made of exploratory need-to-know bacon bits. The scrums are the ones to take it up with currently, they produce the most virtue and food waste. The answer is always incest to the question of holiday barbs. Do you want extra grub for your fresh fillet with decently proportioned pauses in between? Interference with the fence will not be permitted while I read pages and do constant riveting battle with department heads from other companies. Is it true that more than one thing is too much to cope with when breathing through the chakras? Several beans seem to think so, the beans that bob around the official bend. They pop when aubergines make a hypocritical arrival, spout Yorkshire dialect clichés with egg-fried rice. Some things are indeed seasonal and no amount of excuses will cause them to wait around with sexy videotape scandals. Batteries break for lunch and depart with Darwinian contention. It's probably more deliberate than wheat or at least that's what they saw and said. Humming alike.

            What is a calorie callous? Whiffs of suspender pass through the ventilation system. It electrifies the pope's lingerie collection and creates a vivisection between him and his sexually appealing hat. God foretold a time when he would overcome adversity through humming his own self-made theme tune and shooting an army of bloodied ants into the heart of a gas station. He did all this without a moment's quip or a contemptible time-out. Meanwhile the saxophone was plucked and drawn like a compact spoon in a feast of the mentally superior slippers. It was foggier there than I've ever seen it before, as if a wiry dragon had eaten too much too fast and sighed vehemently. Did you see her face, her little beard as he did this? It jumped.

            The cops were eventually moved and something was said in passing to the crock of shit who sampled the overall distraction like a buddy. It's now or never and the word nigh is too scary to implement with nothing more than  British supermodel and an ill-fitting tool belt. They can plump the revolutionary through independent venues of the soul all they like, knowing that the ozone won't do anything about it. It wouldn't dare. The year is almost up and the tap shoes are fading into the echoing green. It's a likely scamp who deserts my flagrant exposition, it's a fastidious buffoon with fleet index fingers and deft soles. The cops are coming all the way from university and they're claiming for the bus journey so that their coffers won't wail this quarter.

            Peter and Ann are the birthright of Erasmus, the progeny of his terse tongue and snail-like teeth. As the actions and transactions and reactions and fractions are running simulations off the back of a camel, we have nothing left to scrape out a crooked banjo tune with. It's more desirous than delirious, it makes the extra cumbersome in Jacksonville. The location remains undisclosed, mister.   

16/07/2013 - BEGGING INVISIBLE MEN FOR PARDONS

             Begging invisible men for pardons is like pinching bottoms in a viaduct, a sure fire method of blackening your car. It was a nice pass and perhaps you shouldn’t have let him shoot and chuck the sandwich cannon out of the dandelion repository but at least we have memories to upset. We can both be happy with busty heather satisfaction, fighting the trivial paternity lawsuit with almighty gusto. That could lead to another transfer and, after that, a fireman’s sonny. Did you remember to bring the keys? Or is it open wide enough to besmirch in our leisure? If only, if only. Let’s find a new way to introduce a problem into the essential cog work of nasty pieces. Do you hear that? Scrape, scrape, scrape. It’s like something out of a listener’s consternation corner. It is rather humorous to see broccoli misused by our heroes. It’s a very little league to move in, a quality pile of smoke ascending just ahead of it.

Thank you for the racist help, Mr. Testicle. You have saved a fleet of easy baker’s an aimless while with your torrential renter’s cheques. Off the record, on the record, off the record, on the record, let’s go CRAZYYYYYYYYYYYYY. I had an XY chromosome but it slithered out with valentine auditions. All I did was sports, skipping and role-playing with upstairs detention prospects. They couldn’t destroy me if they tried, my skills would devour the graceless ladder with timely hearings and nary a feculent doctor in sight. We’re expecting a FULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLFILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLINGGGGGGGGGG day out to the melodramatic museum, it could take a long codex. You know what six-year-old fat people will say? They plan to leave us for the car salesman shtick. It seems a bottomless victory for their side of the equation. What a prickly tangerine.

You’ll be responsible for nifty matchstick faggots and their worldly ways of lashing chicks to mainsails. Let’s steal the housemaid from overprotective lovers at a funeral orgy. Could we make sneakers while this happens? It cramps the tear ducts with lowly nowadays. Should privacy make for partnerships in heretical cultures? I should damn well hope so, Teresa. It’s explicit and vaguely truthful. Go on, Captain Teresa, the poison hasn’t quite set yet and the mould leaves us alone with our pensions. It’s domestic and deserves supreme procedure over maladjusted secrets. Tell me to butt out and the keys will balloon outwards like a penile infection. It could be illegal. What is it with this particular kind of behaviour? How has it been going. HETEROHETEROHETEROHETEROSTEREOHETEROHETEROTERRY. It was nice to see you in pants for once. It could be that you like it rough. It is a big deal, I’ll have you know.

Sometimes these things just don’t matter to the slow motion after effect or would you rather challenge the psychology of the initial interviewer? This city has been really cracking down on kingly lockers. Let us be brutes purely out of curiosity, straight out of the hamper and into the alcove.

15/07/2013 - A TALL SHINY PINNY

A tall shiny pinny wrapped around her fluttering gums, laced at the back of her nepotistic hairdo. It was a sly dig at deforestation law, a parley with the desired effect held in absentia with linked metaphorical arms over some symbolic chasm. The ham salad was just too enticing for her and she couldn’t help but retract her incisors and canines and gnaw her way through to the heavenly bone. She had endured many a penny plight, many a dollop of spontaneous liability, many a musk rabbit in her light and airy undergrowth. She was a drugged up hooker at parties and a saintly business ball buster at West Sussex parties, throwing on dresses and casting off castanets and irretrievable lutes that floated out of the way of passing traffic. She was the slimmest of personalities, the shabbiest of thinkers and the sternest of naked bodies in soggy action films. Her husband was a bus conductor who could walk on staplers alone and not fall down on the wrong end before the egg timer shot him up into the sky. He aimed to please her but mostly just clung onto her arm and talked transmogrification and cheap plonk prices.

One day she forgot to feed his box and all the edges became all runny and opaque and she almost lost her temper in the process of vigorous cleaning. She tightened her apron strings and walked the dog with finesse and a level of calm that was borderline undignified. When she finally returned to the task at hand, she pulled off both her rubber gloves and formed them into a righteous spiral and span it over the problem area, causing a tumultuous twister to climb out of her ne’er-do-well region and spit elastic all over it. It was a rambunctious sight to behold, rest assured. Her husband came home halfway through and did several double-takes without his glasses on. We asked him what he saw and said that it was histrionic triangles and that we should shut up or else they’ll turn on us and slander our names over the next century or so. We didn’t know what to think, we just watched her moving about and jiggling her hips and making contemptuous remarks from over her leaf blower-mounted shoulder. She kicked the shit out of the stains and turned her attention onto us.

Fortunately I was out to lunch within seconds and all she could do to me was issue a stamped and addressed challenge to my corduroy torso. It totally broke my weave and made me a laughing stock to those who could still wheeze out the alphabet without courting bloody coughs. It was an invasion on my sensibility, a crashed VCR on my sanity metre. I remember thinking ‘Perhaps we didn’t, perhaps we shouldn’t’ve, perhaps this opening theme has gone on too long and the players are ready to jam rubber stamps up our nepotistic bottoms.’ I was half right. The asinine thing was I couldn’t even forget my name.

14/07/2013 - I CAN HEAR THE SOUND

I CAN HEAR THE SOUND OF GAZOOKS AND SOME SUCH AND DELILAH PARTING WAYS WITH HER TRUNKS IN A T'RIFFIC FASHION FOR THE CARNIVAL. I couldn't tell you why this matters but maybe the ad revenue will count as a nice susceptible segue into malice aforethought. I CAN MAKE YOU INTO YOU WITH A SIMPLE EXERCISE OF PLANTING WEST VIRGINIAN ARTICHOKES IN YOUR GRANDMOTHER'S UNDERCARRIAGE. I could try a little ironically but who knows where that will spiral and with what oomph, it might just tire us both out. I CAN DRAMATISE A SUMMERY DAY WITH LESBIAN ENCOUNTERS AND ASPERSIONS TO BE CAST ON IRONING BOARD ERGONOMICS. I could love you via the tunnel of dungeon-dwelling horny serpents. I CAN BURY YOU ALIVE WITH FLASHY SAYINGS AND SPORADIC NAUTICAL REFERENCES AND PIE IN THE SKY PALPITATION AND DEFINITE SUNBURN SUPPORT. I couldn't give a minute for an organic organisational table, I wouldn't provide the spliced thistle for the runner soup that is part and parcel of the phone call cake. I CAN COME ALIVE IN A GRAVY BOAT. I could pick it up for a third series and see just how sadly that takes me. I CAN RUSTLE UP A SOCIOLOGICAL HYDRA TO RUN MY ESSENTIALS RAGGED, INTO THE PAVING SLABS, INTO THE SAFARI OF AN EXTRAORDINARILY SHARPENED MASK TO HIDE THE HEBRIDES BEHIND. I could count the minotaurs as they float out of the censure tanker and trickle their way down to the black boron underbelly of satisfying television. I CAN CHERISH THE AUTOMOBILE SHOW WITH BLONDE DIAMONDS AND BRUNETTE EMERALDS. I could stymie the stamen with super-powered pluck provided by patriotic mages, in the form of autographed night beverages. I CAN TASTE THE BRILLIANCE. I could go off the page. I CAN RISK A GUITAR SOLO IN A DISAFFECTED MANOR, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE LIKE THE SHUCK OF A PLANTATION LUNCH DISH. I couldn't pass up his opportunity with the windscreen wiper technology and how I might go on to benefit the rest of therapeutic mankind. I CAN FLOW TWO LITRES OUTSIDE MY BODY WITH THE STRENGTH OF MY INSTILLED CHARACTER. I could smack the thriving placebo group with a subpoena so big it would give it's preconceiving fathers a test for the slim money. I CAN GO ON INTO CAMERA FOCUS. I could make the ghosts come out with the smudge of a thumb print on the right ventricle. I CAN ACCEPT THE POSSIBILITY OF ANNOYANCES IN THE WORLD. I couldn't shimmer my free run without the broadside of gate guilt. I CAN SET OFF. I couldn't make a more passionate argument than the one you signed me up for last Christmas. I CAN REVERSE THE WAY YOU LOOK AT ME IN THE SHOWER AND MAKE YOU LOVE MY DEFORMED BODY HAIR. I could bungee right into the lap of your mother and request that she sets your watchful nature alight. I CAN DRAIN SPAIN OF ALL ITS REFRAIN. I could hold you on my tongue all over again.   

13/07/2013 - LITRES OF DRY BETROTHAL

Litres of dry betrothal. Sameness. Lemonade made from live nun droppings. Tepid. Sons of Rapture in the Dangling Office. Blah. Minutes. Quiche. Minutes. Quiche. Today is the day to become a pound of beef on a vegan platter. Today is the day to drink the sundry down to its earthly morbid instincts. Today is tomorrow only seconds away, gaining in waistline. Today is a point. Today has a point. It has litres of lemonade.

            Just like a tactical missile I'll rectify any sort of deodorant commercial with a simple winning smile with evil teeth and misty-eyed lips. The moisture could fill a circumcision festival, it could cause most creatures to generate their heat ahead of their schemes. It's a fleshy toboggan going downhill to see if July is really as rapid as they say it is. They claim it is something to be sniffed, something to be drank from like a poor man in the edge of scarcity. They borrow this unhealthy mind to preserve her in her iron cage and all the latex that surrounds her and encourages her disposition to prosper. Meanwhile the swordfish go away to seek their northern fortunes, to plunder the red-headed caves with saturnine connection blades. All that is left of the wake is a destitute pardon and eleven goldfishes. It's a massacre.

            Enormous synchronicity blasts its sway through the barracks so that the samba can be recognised as a form of US currency. This all takes place in London in case you were wondering and wanted to form a spat with someone in your righteous splendour. It's a typography too, I believe. Oh my God, test it! That's what they always neglect to tell you until the very last minute of procedure just to see if you're commonsense faculties are up to scratch and ticking away like paternal love. Like so: go on, go on, go on, go on, going on, gone on, on gone, on gin, genie, gyrating, genuflecting, Jezebel gestures in gerund ligaments. Chance would have you say finer things in my presence but then chance never wears a shirt of pants so who cares what it's mouth is saying to us. Our ears are little buds that don't quite know what they're opening to and just go along for the process until further and harsher instruction.

            It's a promise. That's a promise. That's a naked lady. That's a sunburnt dude. That's a way over the sermon. That's a dormitory. That's a working staircase. That's an it. It's a promise. It's a good one. It's decent enough when compared to the salad bar generation that struts and gloats with the dastardly sun. How the Science Hermits must scream at the point of seeing worms and dragons streaming across their visors, how they must promise Erasmus their lives and monumental misgivings in order to live in polite poverty. These intelligent, brave men are fallen to a train wreck of masquerade, a smattering of vicissitude. Dear kimono. Dear litre by litre by pasty container.

12/07/2013 - A PERFECTLY BREATHABLE ATMOSPHERE

                A perfectly breathable atmosphere is a bizarre thing to behold. Good grief! The synthesizer! It's not exactly going on but Justine will fill the aforementioned troll with prompt whiskey results. Who wants to manage the mirror of marriage mirage? It'll explode! Surely! The pipe organ is griping with its grind and walls out the corruption. I caught a whiff of conspiracy in the vegan meeting, the kind you stumble on in the smart darkness. It's a vast interior constantly folding in rational positions. As good as they foretell, I'd say. Who are they? They are the Themes of Egyptian Lore, the Hierophant's Morticians, the Morose Viking Warrior Queens of Next Fortnight. Beware their exaggerated touch, it'll melt the mask right off of your domino face.

                In the meantime let's start the transfusion: the Master Kin has bought us enough time to resurrect the principle so that we may joust with its wet end and twirl our girls along the caskets. That's your girl and that one over there's my girl, by the way. We objectify according to distance and you'd do well to stay the course. It'll engage and tilt for as long as this great piano concerto bounds along its auspicious axis. The name of the brewery was Stanley Mystify in case you were wondering. The wolves were good humoured about the entity that inhabited the left side of their bodies, which is to say we had to cut out their canines with blunt buttercup blades. Blood is fiery, their blood in particular. Judgement calls are not as daft as most people think they are, a name is a nose in the race of Manhattan Pastimes. So come on, dear coach: the alpacas are all roasting in the gingery tropes of yore.

                The overbite is so insistent, so demanding when the string instruments decide to come into play and stop distancing themselves from their heritage and the responsibilities that tether them to that particular creed. The welcomes you get tend to be chomping sounds until the buffering starts up proper, until the primates go forth to masticate Saturday prom dates. It's the first one so frisk it with lordly detail or feel the hatred of a thousand wiry old men spread across the inner seam of your thigh. Let's make it a good anniversary for the dead ones.  These ancient gits are decaying and don't like u-bends or u-turns or sparse Americanisms. So long as they last the night with a healthy eye on witticism, then who cares what they eventually turn out? The empress doesn't come down this way anymore anyway.

                Here comes the thorn herself begging with hydraulic knee knick-knacks. It's the same sample every year, the test is a harmonious lakeside party instinct. The beasts climb the stage and don't stop at the curtains or the overhead lighting, they keep going on and on until the chandelier is tempted to let them down with some grace and charm. This is it for the post though. Just tact.