05/07/2013 - THE NICHE IN JULY

The niche in July, that is what I shall call my epitaph. It will be a moving piece of ready room literature, a scribble of pastured kettles and inhumane apologies.  Silver connects the border with God and all his working words and tiddly wedding professions. Are we nearly done, dear mountains? Of course the well is full with malnourished origami sasquatches and laced together at the top by overtime. It's a tractor of deception and the noise is chug-chug-chugging along nicely at its own deceptive pace. Measurements are measurements whatever way you shape and shave the paper. Don't let the sons teach you otherwise with their backstreet tank joyrides. Don't you dither now. Git. Git along, little microbe.

                Because microbes are good sentient beings, don't you know. Well, in my experience at least THEY'RE ANCIENT. WEAVING AND SPLAYING AND TANGLING are the fundamental bones of their next-to-nowhere body transplants. The schism is making a parakeet out of the ultimate skeleton, it is flashing the flesh with red turgid skinflints. They applaud for the father like he was in fact someone to be intervened with. Let me tell you, this chappy really isn't. He comes from a chip shop and does the four fingered swan song with eighteen underage lasses in the neighbourhood. It's only vaguely Italian and that's why he gets off on mediocre behaviour charges. No-one belongs to themselves, they belong inside the capacity for humane strength, within the ball bearing that bore the pallbearer with glistening multitude. It's a cripple's sanctimonious playlist, that is to say it makes for it whilst not actually having to lay down a commitment or several options for one. It's a leisure service: no cloth, no smear.

                It does happen and usually by half. The brows collapse and the tennis tournament gets really interesting and there's all or nothing for it and the bottom is almost and very nearly reached and the dally is close to sight and that does in fact mean a lot more than I'll dictate in future. It takes sway to become this awesome, to become a voice actor lashing about the gravy of outrageous misfortune and getting three types of naked for the parade of crying masseuses. At least they have pretty Celtic earrings to cherish for the remainder of their childish poppadom  existences. It's the hairdressers all over again, you drape an apron over them and they do in fact become barbers with bigger boobs. It's ace and for the betterment of scientific discovery or so I've been led to believe by telltale obesity. Cheeky politicians with cigars stuffed in their petal-arsed mouths. The stalks run on and forth and under and back around the seventh legion just to show they are capable of cheering on a grumpy Scotsman.

                I wish I could remember the sanctity of huge electro-hands and their potential for ending the world hunger crisis. With one finely wrapped jolt you could establish Caspian's asthma. You're a sick freak, you know that? Don't answer.