31/08/2013 - ALL OF THE PICTURES WORK

            All of the pictures work but only in a Northern way. It's melancholy, scotch mist across a stuffed child's shoulders, whistling through the plots and subplots therein. The experimental herd goes out past the hills to shut down most unworthy topics of pert conversation. They are a hundred million strong and charge in on horses with wheels and firecrackers. The original French for this was something hypnotising and illustrative of assorted trout. I encountered other metallic wonders with my usual brand of maddening malarkey such as the ninetieth clock of boorish wax. You find most of its constituent parts in New York, wrapped in bags of lumpy custard but nobody's ever going to notice. The Erotic Chronicles chart the naturally progressive reviews of this custard-coated clock but the one bit I want to read are the crinkles near the middle, the ones that smell of lavender grass.

            There are many things writhing above and below the furled fragrance of nasty mysticism. Can we be comprehensive of dark matter for fifteen years? Can you ever hope to parp in the cheek of God just to show your significance? I'm sure it's made of silicon, it's always made of silicon. The entire Eastern hemisphere is tantalised with the prospect of imaginative silicon, the stuff of feeling sex all along its threshold. Amidst the usual passage of kinship in scientific development, I will shift you into a biro. This biro will be made of both wood and steel and other electronic bits and bats. Needless to say, it will be tremendous in its glorious babble, fantastic in its alluring waste of time. It's all chewable too, a fine way to work the jaw when whiling away the topsy turvy analogies of temporal movement. It makes me feel triumphant like a rock splurging on didactic platitudes that lap and lap and depend entirely on what I'm writing.

            I could believe in a signal to noise, the pain that swiftly became pan, the pan which died and regenerated into manna. I love all the talk about my baking prowess, it makes me feel like some sort of guardian angel sat atop a crossroad sign with a worry on my brow. If you eat cheese in front of me I will spit tuna into your line of sight, it is the way of all things scrummy. On Tuesdays I might even throw a bit of mayonnaise into the bargain but it comes out as it comes out. On Thursdays I will most definitely go 'ah' and spasm like a rabbit. I wish for an underwater burial, with diving bells and dietary requirements and everything. I could swim around the cops for a little while at least, as I lose my floating privileges and fall into my own jammy comic book. I'll probably remember the full-length stretch I did when the hawker pulled the stairs out from under me. It seemed like it would hurt but it was merely terrific. At that moment, I will feel just like a reprint.

30/08/2013 - HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Hans Christian Andersen dyes the doctor’s hair blonde and gets away with it. Only HCA can manage such a feat of corpulence, he alone can disrupt the very cadence of nature in fluctuation. He makes animals talk and the devil’s own’s eyes gasp in the name of hereditary gumption. It’s the kind of sweet he likes to scoff when reading plagiaristic articles about his life. It makes his moustache smirk and fleck itself with cardigan fibres. HCA is a madman when it comes to cleaning lint off of his shoulder blades; they always manage to cut him somehow, like a rapier. It makes the rest of his limbs scatter.

Meanwhile his doctor is a woman and she isn’t taking no for answer from most of her sorry-legged child patience. She secretly wants to overthrow the comix scene with her own brand of miscreant hair gel, thereby creating spikes and a future of tapestry poking. She is a virtuous finger with a tape recorder but a bowing bounty for all those who seek medical professionals with blonde streaks in their hair. The actors she works for are reticent to say the least, Francophiles with sleepy directions going ahead of their scrabble scores. The tyre tracks are brotherly and sisterly, great no matter the gear rattled gender. To be so blind to genitalia is an implosive pastime, it’ll only result in volcano people coming forth to demand their money back from where there money has never been nor will ever even touch delicately. The daredevils shoot out of the woodwork and lay claim to the doctor and her HCA attacker, stating to the media at large that they are perpetrators of most unorthodox actions in the Middle East. The fantasy of a comix collection about painful doctrine is just that, a fantastic premise for a crafty yarn. Neil untangles those kind of yarns with a slippery calm, it knocks him right onto his centre and splits most of his facial expressions like a lip on a fat tiger.

This isn’t about Neil and his fiddly finger though, this is a testimony against Hans Christian Andersen’s gadding about in the waiting room. He was last seen flinging clipboards at erstwhile patients in the hopes that they might promote themselves to uncomfortable, wonky plastic chairs rather than the cushioned but significantly sinkable armchairs they are currently hogging. Fortunately his actions are so far for naught, who would want to give a fine upstanding storyteller anymore than his due? His characters are in support of his misbehaviour because they are his children and are simply expected to do so. If they ever broke their letter-based programming then they would simply cease to be fun anymore so I supposed we should take what they choose to regard with a pinch of cardiac arrest. That way Neil doesn’t get to unpick the really bad stuff ahead of his clientele’s wishes. There are two slices left for him to unthread so we’ll leave him at that. He’ll be happy enough.

29/08/2013 - THERE WAS A Z BUTTON

            There was a Z button underneath the table originally, it gleamed and coughed in binary code. The hero probably pressed it when he burst into the room through the air vent but at least he didn't fire at it with a plasma cannon. The light show would have looked awesome but the button would ultimately remain untouched. The Chimney has practiced the art of gentle hand technology, anything even close to abrasive force will result in an octopus skull.

            Next up - the cave full of diamonds and irritating excrement. Who gives a fuck? Who gives a fuck? I'll tell you exactly who gives a fuck, the pioneers of the human spirit! That's who! Those dudes are good for plenty, they constructed careful bombs and even set the template of the original, unedited 'inkling'. Erasmus usually takes credit for it but you can't trust a man who taints boom boxes whenever he crashes through a red light. Gridlock means nothing to Erasmus, especially when's borrowing Neil's sneaky cloak. Who needs baste fantasies when you can cork waterfalls with stuff and stuff alone? It's delicious, like unsheathed brittle.

            The hero passed through here too, you know. He was a fine physical specimen, fiercely protected by internet pixies with their hyperbolic wings. He had elements of an experimental biochemist only he was faster and more street smart in his approach to gradient knighthoods. He even found the other one, the false 'inkling', the one that fit in a whiskered flask. He fed it dried cheese flakes and burnt his wrist in the process. Yum.

            Either way, you know the drill by now: stasis is all well and good when it's rainy and thundering outside but isn't nor ever will be a salsa exemption. The hero had an a priori mindset and that was ultimately the death of him. Elevator shafts don't care if you recognise their existence or relevance before you approach them, they just let you drop as they stand still. The up thrust and wind resistance are the responsibility of the man alone, women need only tuck themselves in and hope for the soundest possible conclusion. If you do see a bloke who isn't plummeting to his sloppy demise then he is no doubt a contemporary poet and you must smack him around with a spoon on sight. We're talking pronto, sharpish territory here.

            The rules for women have been slackening as far as jihad his concerned, you can wag your tongues in cesspits but don't expect to get them back without any coppery blood on the tip and sides. The forces of nature may like you but the librarian of pain has no time to heal your soggy, red tickler. Lines are going down all over the place and contemporary poets are running off into the bushy hills with precious books in their heads and their ears sticking out. Equality is indeed on the horizon but would you like to see that horizon green with radiation and bearing its own teeth? Didn't think so.

28/08/2013 - WHEN IT'S OVER, IT'LL BE OVER

When it’s over, it’ll be over. When it’s over, it’s over, when it’s over. When it’s over, it’s over and over and over and over and over again. When it’s over, it’s under. When’s it over? When it’s over. When it’s over, it’ll be over. When it’ll be over, it’s over. When it’s over, it’s over but only over and over again. When it’s over, it’s a clover. When it’s over, it’s an oversight. When it’s under, it’s just over an overthrow all over and for rover. When it’s over, it’s over; it’s over for good and proper. When it’s under, it’s under and under and turned asunder. When it’s clover, it’s from Dover and that means it’s over there. When it’s over like Dover clover from over there, you know that’ll be it for rover. When it’s over and under and clover and asunder and closer and a blunder to be seen on the overseen underside. When it’s overt, it’s covert. When it’s under, it’s blunder. When it’s over but not completely over, it’ll be over. When it’s cover, it’s plunder. When it’s over and over and out again, it’ll eventually become under. When it’s over, when will it be overt? When will it be overt to be a underhanded overpass? When it’s over, it’ll be over. It’ll be over when it’s over. When you turn over asunder, it becomes a rover clover from Dover but only when damaged by blunder plunder. When it’s over, it’s as good as over or perhaps better.

 

Afterlifeafterthegoodlifeofpeoplewhowearchestplatesdiscreetlyandbetrayfuriousenergyinordertokillthebestspinalcolumnonofferthenweshallbecomeafighterofsomedegreeofworthofsomeinsomniacrushofplatoniclongitudeweshallblazeourengineswithsledgesofbutcheranoraksadnessyouknowwhattheproblemiswiththesekindofjointsnowthecrematoriumsdonotworkanymoreandseemtofindtheirownbrandofhatredandskittishnessjusttelluswhathappenedtothelastshadedcrewonthebackofthisbusitreallywasnotasprettyasmostdesertdwellerswouldhaveyoubelieveitwillhurtjustotseeamanwithabuzzcutofheliumflowingoutofthetopofhiswarriorshipshapedheadit’llhurtallrightlikeacannonburststraighttothearrestedtunnelvision

 

            In the meantime I’ve deployed a frigate to test the faith of a epic lord marshal, one who has shown himself to be unsteady on his feet. To kill the saying is to taint the consensus pool of conspiracy, a body of water that is so carefully attended by the trolls of our community, the pure and burnt sporadic Lady Macbeths. The tombs are settling up and walking away forever to see what it is like at the back of the bald man’s head, a venture that they might not get to see through more than once. Why, after thirty years, should we recognise the elemental neutrality? The lord marshal is busy busking on the street to see if he can make it to his destination with the power of angles alone to carry him along. He plots a course but realises the complete inanity of such an action, it is more of an exercise in grief and handy nail-biting.

            In the meantime the cavern is clutching at greyscale in the hopes that it will grow a nape on its burgeoning neck, a space to become a cool man in naked chains. The bandages go on afterwards or else seem to go on following the event. The basket these bandages originate from can be accessed from most bearded women in towns ending with ‘sex’. There are four ways to snort for their attention but you really should give subtlety a try, it creates a lovely breeze.

27/08/2013 - MARRYING WATERPROOF MARTIANS

            Marrying waterproof Martians with lithe dance hall instructors was definitely the right direction to go in. It's too intimate to think otherwise, to organise nuptials with anything other than these two. You tend to seek distractions in this life and the bigger the distraction the better, so why not bring two undeserving quantities together? The sum is ridiculous and worth regulating just for that fact alone. The mother-in-laws are purely conceptual but they sure can kick up some dusty fuss with their high-heeled wretchedness. They just don't behave themselves however you choose to interpret or indeed apply them.          

 

Fortunately the route changes and slips into a stream of correspondences lost, churning the waves out like grip on a flea's proboscis. There are always those picky cookies, the guests and staff, that get in the way of the marching orders and jousting events but they're stainless steel and won't be here for long. Apparently they're outmoding steel, the higher-ups of the Tawny Castle. It's become a sin to even touch the stuff in the Southern turrets and the King is seriously considering removing it from the history books entirely. The robots will die, the cookies will wither. Marvellous. Let the wedding commence.

            I daren't call it a unification in case the remaining guests, those not encumbered with metallic regimes, get sick and start retracting their thumbs from the seats. Such games are for dunces and they realise this and rebel in their dexterous ways. At least they don't go around masquerading as split-personality cases when they're eyes don't even emote in every possible capacity. Something just doesn't sit well with the Martians when watching it, they know its acting but the blinking is just too irregular. The Martians shouldn't have to deal with such trivialities when their minds should be busy making broad exposition.

            Meanwhile, as far as the procession goes, pop starlets have been kept to a minimum for fear that they'll grow tits and an attitude. After a while, they tend to flash both like it means something beyond the realms of their own locus. So we've fazed them out and factored more paper documents in. They do little dances on the air resistance as you drop them from virtually any height: much more calming. As for the dance hall instructor, or as he is forthwith known 'The Groom', he wants to charter the psychogeography of his bachelor party. There might be strippers and the like but we are inclined to think that he has booked in a couple of hours at the corner pocket of most pool tables and in a few graphic artist's crèches just for giggles.  It isn't clear whether he shits or not yet though it seems likely considering the size of his flabby arse. Ask our caretaker, she is a 'Jacksy Expert'.

            Catering will of course be provided by Isis and her department of snakes, their cake decorations are desperate but delightfully cheap. A few of the snakes will also be running the disco. They say:

 

Oomagodthereissn'tawanginsitehersowellwewilljusthavetoplayoursardonicgalvanismonthegeordiemoonatleastuntilthekeytosalvationpopsupagainanddoesthejitterbugforthelilwaspchildrenofsouthhamptongreengrocerssocietywhojusthappentobesomeofthefiercestlesbiandismayersintheworldorsotheytellmedownthepubandarms

25/08/2013-26/08/2013 - WRITING TIPS FOR THE LIGHT-HEADED and READING TIPS FOR CHAINSAW WIELDERS

WRITING TIPS for the light-headed vary from re-establishing uncle tropes to mastering current grammatical jitters. If anyone tells you different then shun them forthwith, they know nothing of the true side of hand cramp or pen strikes or learned mistakes. The key trick to becoming a successful writer, and of course I mean a writer who successfully makes a fool of himself while clocks are ringing all around him, the key trick is to wear a baseball cap when out in public. People will underestimate you, challenge you for the sake of their bookshelves, and defy your definition of what it takes to animate slurping noises. Scribbling is not writing so don’t even try to spew out daft concepts born of slipshod theories orchestrated by romantic poets and modern horror writers. Always trust the former SAS soldiers, they know all the right people and can threaten those that somehow stay away from them. It takes a lot of water to get a publishing deal these days and only a little water retention.

AND OF COURSE the fun part of being a writer with moderate success is dictating what lesser mortals shouldn’t do. I say that you should never sing above a minor G, you should never consider the implications of loose foundation stones, you should avoid climbing up ceiling fans for a loose sheaf of paper and you definitely should never own more than three doors. These rules are paramount and therefore you can’t ever warp them or blow your nose on them. Only I can gently turn them on their side, lay them down on a yoga mat and commence with some gentle stretching exercises and that’s because I have earned the right and qualifications to do so. You can aspire to bag my better ideas but that is all, what I have written here is written in stone and not just because of my special carving pen. I have a heart full of love and won’t take shit about my adverbs. I have an extendable condo and my own observatory trained on women’s football locker rooms everywhere. I have vinyl, a chance to eat that vinyl and the chance to throw that vinyl back up whenever I want. You can have what I have but only when you’ve accepted me as the next step up.

MY CARPENTER says I am wonderful and she has blistered thumbs. It’s all for show and worth your usual brand of yo-yo commentary. I’d be happy to hang it up only there is a dynamic magician in my bed currently and she is just as lovely and broken as my carpenter. They play in a band together, a band called Turbulent Quandary. I have never heard any of their track lists and pride myself in this respect. I am far too busy writing my words and choking on the punctuation to notice anything going on around my head. Just keep stocking up on hot cross buns and I might have a chapter by the end of the week. Probably not a first draft.

 

            Reading tips for chainsaw wielders are very simple actually. First you start with a lolloping lullaby to stiffen the arm and then you open the prose and snort it up through your left nostril. Not your right nostril!  Your right nostril makes elementary mistakes so DON’T FUCKING USE IT! Sorry for the bad language, I’m having multiple conversations at once. The internal combustion engine can also be very useful, as well as pursuing a career in midwifery. The calling calcifies your brain and the engine charges through your important areas. To advise jettisons of nervous substances creates its own plight, its designation redirected. I come from a particularly small family and have learned that powerful reading requires a strict adherence to the rules, no matter how perplexing. As surprising as it seems, it normalises with a heron beak.

            For instance, go stand with that ghostly carpet. Do you feel a pair of testicles brushing against your earlobe? Don’t worry that is sensation caused by national pride. It is rather fabulous and not a little bit nebulous in this extraordinary effect of life. The bottom does not move, it is very peculiar and may cause bleeding of the hair scum and may even end life. Can you see the point? I presume that that can in your hand is, by its very nature, flimsy. It is a desirable object.

            Anyway back onto reading. As a wielder of chainsaws you should know all about niches and indentations and their camouflaged behaviour. One of the reasons you lost your other senses was because of your least welcome invention: the imagination. Who wants to create long glory if it means pushing around those inner-marbles? IT IS AN INFECTION WITHOUT THE FUN OF INFLECTION. If you feel imagination creeping up on your remarkable ability to foretell indentations, then phone the police immediately. They’ll crown you until the pesky trick elapses and shudders back into the lipstick cupboard. Don’t worry: they have been sufficiently trained in a Jamaican facility.

            Now it is time to reverse-engineer, to tell you all the things that you absolutely cannot do to be a good reader. One: you cannot record the Irish and play back their jolly suffering streak. Two: you cannot become an executive toy. Three: you cannot predict the future of the laws of physics. Four: you mustn’t hone any more than sixty swinging balls during your short lifespan. Five: never host an irrelevant radio show. Six: never wear 0% of a neckerchief. Seven: don’t seem illumination when what you really want is enlightenment. These are all perfectly healthy tips to a reasonably perky future. So avoid doing all that. That would quite fit the bill or so I am led to believe.

            In short, stop being a writer. You don’t have to have written anything to be a writer but you can suffer key symptoms from it. What your seeking is readership so don’t mess around. You’re merely bookish.

24/08/2013 - PORTLY PRIGGISH

                Portly priggish dunderheads! Palaeolithic mastodons! My, how your graffiti gets it wrong! My, oh, my! Man, oh, man! You sir, are venerable! It's time to flay your public again!

 

                I'd rather not see you drinking while you do it but I must admit to enjoying, nay, basking in that glimmer in your eye as the fat, fortuitous details come spewing out through the ears, nose and throat of your local GP from Mars Market Square. You know the place, the glorified puddle at the end of the sarcophagus, the one where all the pissy policemen retire to when their opinions get shacked up with farthing principality and the marriage remains somewhat shaky. You know you secretly enjoy going to that place to hear the shoes squeak, the cans explode and even the fat Filipinos sort his prestigious shoe horn collection in the middle of the gutter, just off centre and only slightly off-key. It's just the way you usually like it and I know how you like the things you like to be distinctly off-white. It turns them into the things you love and resist all negative criticism of them. It would break you down to a nub.

                 And of course we have the leotards ready and the health emptied and divided accordingly so that you can continue your unearthly, ungodly hopscotch tournament with the other Queens of Dung Heaps. Everyone on staff just loves to see you all crammed into the official jeep, circling the block with your tin pots on and your happy alarm's blaring. It wouldn't be a party otherwise. Meanwhile we on staff are thoroughly content to keep to our usual duties of security camera surveillance and recording cheap, tacky rap remixes. We on staff have jewels to polish and plosives to misconstrue in our polite but concrete conversion conversations. We're halfway to ruling the borderline with all planks on board and talk-talk-talking about the latest brick fashions. It takes a short while before we convince them that such matters are impure and not worthy of prospective members of the Yellow Rucksack Deviation Society. It's a closed off community but we like it and like it for you in the dictated way.

                I see we are having a 'human-shield-off' now. The 'scapegoat' game doesn't get a look-in these days and it really is a crying pity to not see all the fresh, young faces you usually exploit during such activities. The blood is the part I enjoy most. It makes Marty the chauffeur all hot and bothered and that turns him into yet another reckless passage of time. Just watch his dyspeptic cheeks: they go all bright red and squeamish and then a little purple at the centre. He really should treat his skin better. You score and the bronze clock of his vision is yours, to put it very plainly. Since we saw the replay, my mind keeps going to surprising places and twirls in ballistic recruitment patterns, dips for a while and then debases itself.

23/08/2013 - TELL THE GALAXY

            Tell the galaxy something worthwhile. Tell the leadless enterprise of existence to suck a lemon and sick on koala bear hunters. Tell authorial waterfalls not to have such big noses. Thus the Robed Tyrant decrees. Ignore all declarations of a return to Victorian values or bare-breasted knuckle fights, that was merely the Robed Truant in disguise. He changed robes but now I'm unwinding the threads of his.

            It isn't easy being one who decrees because he wears fancy robes. On multiple occasions I've had to communicate rapidly with long distance shore leave providers about conifer conferences and hydraulic links to all men named Schultz. You could say all you like about guys named Ike, Schultz don't deserve the feel the brunt of the aftershock of such turbulent hatred. I like the Jews, so long as they don't saddle up their bows in my shoe shining emporium. It's not racist, it's quite right and makes pointless celebrities out of all involved.

            Chilling cornucopias are my next big project and I'm diving straight in. I have a few things I'd like to decree and even one or two things worth condoning too. As always I'll make the headshots clean and well-lubricated so that those who are stranded on the second floor don't get caked in sorry business. I'd buy the whole of the second floor usually but times have been rather tight of late. My beard is growing thick so we must call out the donkeys.

            It's a delicate process and involves much hankering after television psychics. These cold readers are just like the Truant, naughty and unwilling to divulge any of their cleverer tricks unless hefty bribes are involved. I can't tell you how many raisins I have spent in trying to reason with the lad and I shouldn't think he eats them. I've got it into my head that he snorts them through the barrels of his shotgun and then spits them into the back of a corporal's head. When he isn't bothering me, the Truant is usually on the warfront making a mess of everybody.

            Anyway they've finally gotten around to fixing the election. I asked for a glorified raise and they are willing to give it to me provided I jump through a few notorious hoops. The first is inflammatory, the second is marriage and the third is a walkabout. Meandering across some silly desert, who would even want that sort of life? It's only empowering for the first thirty minutes and then you start getting all thrifty and generally untrustworthy around small children. Beheading is a common side effect, one that I have perfected. Then again I am a Tyrant, in or out of the robe.

            This earth moves around in measures, surly centimetres and quenched inches. It's best not to pick sides when you're a successful villain, it behoves you to simply throw on the robe and go out and do your job. And let me tell you, causing travesty is a full-time job. I make videos too. They're quite popular as it turns out.

22/08/2013 - CLEMENCY RETRIEVES

Clemency retrieves.
Retrieval abides.
Abiding dictates.
Dictation stupefies.
Stupor sings.
Singers prosper.
Prosperity lives.
Prosperity lives. Prosperity lives in downtown New Jersey.

            Meanwhile we make off with the full litter of teething kitty cats and a few pirated DVDs and CDs. Meanwhile we chew audio with all its potential fluctuations, with all its spouses in alignment out on the front deck of our luxury yacht. Meanwhile the deadened ornaments come out clambering for oxygen and Yiddish nitrate, they hear good things about this particular brand. Meanwhile the spruced-up hammock awaits and, in its waiting, yawns and fills it's absence with letter openers. Meanwhile the dogs are loosed. Meanwhile Prince Charming overpowers a particular oceanic vessel with the intention of turning away from his dull life of regency for a spot of vile grinning instead. Meanwhile the treacherous crew lie in wait of his first and fatal slip-up. Meanwhile the visceral viceroy binds himself with safety in numbers as we draw nearer and nearer to his alcove. Meanwhile the demonic spirit who lives in every surrounding alcove but the viceroy's is rubbing his fists together in the hopes of creating static explosions to barrel through solid rock walls. Meanwhile the wives are getting bored. Meanwhile they call their ex-boyfriends to see what's happening. Meanwhile we button up our ties and prepare for a life of rampant homosexuality. Meanwhile we dread this outcome because it's really not well-timed or captivating enough to hold our interests. Meanwhile the deliverance of diets steadies to a flagged halt. Meanwhile the people fill their minds with pockets of foil packages. Meanwhile the crew are slicing off the former Prince Charming's lovely locks. Meanwhile the draining tapers off. Meanwhile the daylight savings grow shorter. Meanwhile we adjust our trouser leg lengths. Meanwhile we tape down the holes of our headgears. Meanwhile the galactic officers shoot over our heads. Meanwhile we pass the ten pin story of boy meets supercollider. Meanwhile the turbine makes mischief. Meanwhile the old lesbian wears her lover's necktie. Meanwhile the neckerchief of her current lover discredits itself by being just silk. Meanwhile society  gets out while it still can. Meanwhile the escapist regime grows ever more complicated. Meanwhile the radio play lets its picturesque nature go completely wild. Meanwhile the winged hydrants go out of their way to hunt down doggies. Meanwhile the key is crusting up around the corners. Meanwhile we are still somehow stuck further inside a train station with only three platforms. Meanwhile the crèche chances upon a fast food outlet and both decide to form a proboscis of family fun. Meanwhile the lids are being made of chest hairs and we just don't know it yet. Meanwhile we look at you for being a funny guy. Meanwhile your moths break my nose. Meanwhile your ugly butterflies make full use of my jaw muscle. Meanwhile the pad regains its subtlety. Meanwhile Prince Charming is rotting on an escaped boat. Meanwhile, suddenly.

Misdemeanour quests.

Quests grind.

Grinding hovers.

Hovering administrates. 

Administration, administration.

21/08/2013 - THY LOATHSOME GRIDLOCK!

Thy loathsome gridlock! Thy torrent of virtuous ineptitude! Thy cracked cheeks of Holy Communion chest reflexes! Thee and thou are to dance with dervish dodgers tonight and don’t let me hear a word of it while you do!

Your monkish tendencies will be put to better use, like arched knuckles on the wet undersides of piano keys. Do you hear the thirst of lightning? It threatens to electrocute the music with its trumped up charges and phone calls to the police that never really seem to go very far if anywhere at all. If you look in my eyes, you’ll see a thee who is yearning to get out. I haven’t worn britches in seventeen months and I think I deserve the moment to reclaim this whimsical perpetration. The waters are calm and the glaring sunshine isn’t exactly going anywhere, not for the vampires certainly. So let me be a woman dressed as a man trying to cut it because the Bechdel Test reveals a big insufferable truth! Let mine eyes behold a travesty that lays at the very topknot of three homeless jackanapes! Downtrodden is the way to go and will make my teeth glimmer and maybe even triumph over allergies of the mute.

 

At this awkward time I shall step in as a new narrator. I am one who is less inclined to bugger Shakespeare with ripped-up sonnets, I have a healthy deal of respect for any man with a short, back and sides the bard had. From what I’ve heard in the grimy sasquatch valley, this guy was the most notorious beard wearer to ever walk on hallowed ground. I don’t even think he was religious! I don’t even think he was lucid! Right now it seems just as likely that he had wide green fangs as he was any of the previously mentioned things. I am a baby when it comes to dandy speculation, I suckle anything with a nib. What I will say though is that I don’t like these fancy schmancy indentations, I prefer my paragraphs to be blocky and rather blue and scrawled in crawly wording. As an honorary member of the Skirt Adjustment Squad I feel it is my civic duty to let you all know, fine people that you are, that if I see any coattails out of place I’m legally bound to strap you up to the nearest carrier bags handle. Don’t worry it’s moderately quaint and hardly painful at all. Why, my stepchildren did it just the other day and they seem alright, a bit sore but definitely alright. I make them stay in the cupboard whenever they mislead tourists like they did so the little blighters got off lucky, one less day in obscure darkness. Anyway, are any of you out there toadies? I’ve never met a toady before, thought I’d quite like one. So if there are any toadies out there, bear in mind NOT roadies, then please mark a path to the front and we’ll strut in the rye. Wonderful.

20/08/2013 - BEHOLD AN INDENTED HUBBUB!

Behold an indented hubbub! Zero brings her straight back to her roots. The unchained man has fled her for a unique job title and specific hiring opportunities. Something big may be in the works, something exclusive and in desperate need of ordering. It takes an awful lot to cancel on our Lorna Fortnight, she is an angel at her very core and manages spaceships with her monetised origins. The unchained man is a runner and does little else to pass the time. He often carries a cheese grater so if you see a man matching this description, be sure to shoot to kill and then ask questions of the corpse in the unlikely but still possible eventuality that it can still transmit wordy messages. Otherwise, how dare you, white dude!

            You see, it wasn’t how things started with her that was the problem it was how she knew they were going to end. Lorna has seen herself a paraplegic with severe back problems and an inability to mouth harsh vowels. She has undergone extensive surgeries and speech therapy sessions but the spotlight just won’t let her be. It seems that the yellowy glimmer has a sick sense of humour and a burgeoning tendency towards hindsight. Nevertheless it wants to see another day practically every other day so Lorna will remain in a perpetual ball of pain until some gentleman in pastoral glad rags comes along and purifies her milkshake. The cowpoke is doing everything he can but she won’t let him near her without a chaperone, which is fair enough but how can she spend the rest of her life regretting the act if she won’t comply?

There are many clouds to be watchful of and watchful over but only thirty of them are German. Each of these Germanic cumuli is out to defy weather patterns with their scratchy silver linings. You could lose yourself in the tribunal to put it very simply. Next time you might even see Lorna’s hubbub in the buff. She doesn’t half look good for a woman who is as swollen and tampered with as she is. Her buttocks, for instance, they leave plenty of room for cushy vengeance plans whilst also leading almighty charges and marches into vivid pantheons. It doesn’t take a whisper to become notorious, whispers echo in here anyway. Think of it as verbal scrimmage, a lovely allowance to horse about for a bit.

You see, it isn’t how she has coped with her suddenly difficult life as a gardener, it is how she boasts about the wonderful freedoms it brings. The other ladies of lavish cuttings and trimmings are starting to plot awful offal-based attacks on her bramble patch, reinforced by the occult arts and various other sickles of black magic. Voodoo is a daytime thing, something we can all sort with a bit of practice and a sprinkle of duress. The real and present danger is the knuckle cracker who is out there in my field currently, composing ditties about a memoranda.

19/08/2013 - OTHER THAN THAT

                Other than that, the other hand, I'm not sure how cider is made there. One would assume that the apples were tantalised beforehand, catalysed or whatever the actual word is but, after that, anyone's guess is as good as mine. I think you'll find I was the one who sallied forth with an explanation as soon as the question was shot out of that backside cannon you call a mouth. It's not that I hate you, baby, it's more that I don't think you should be able to cobble together fry-ups as directly as you do. Your mother and I wanted to teach you how to control that mouth but all you seem to do with it is fixate, fixate, fixate. I want to take you to the opticians to see if they can fit a few dozen lenses in your mouth but your mother, in her infinite wisdom, thinks we should simply ensure your status as cuckold ahead of all the time and pain. So here it comes...

                ...oh and before you lock eyes with a black man's train, be sure that he isn't in fact a gory ventriloquist conquistador. I've made that mistake on numerous occasions and I thought that you should benefit from my experience before your mother and I leave you in the dusk entirely. It's not technically abandonment if you're not completely cognizant, is it? You don't even have your own distinct scent yet. I rubbed your left side on my trouser legs and your mother wrapped all her best cardigans around your right side. She tried to hug you for one last time but I managed to send a message straight to that dizzy place she calls a head and she quickly dropped you breaking all your ties. At the exact same instant an eclipse occurred so at least you know that it was predestined and totally the right and accurate thing to do.

                Anyway my phone reception is nothing but muddy shit on a lakeside potter's rump so I'll let you off for now. The kiln is a good place to start but I'm not going to tell you that whilst you can still hear me so I'll just cover all this with a black banner and leave you to catch up on your own damn time. Meanwhile I'm turning the crib you left behind into a fine orator, a honest to God leader of household goods. The war is just around the corner so expect warranties to suddenly become inappropriate.

                Go now my child. I place you in this rocket for the simple reason that you ask too many questions. You don't even attempt to enlighten me with that chubby armed enthusiasm you insist on. I know it's a front but your mother isn't as bright as I am. I was in the previous set of wars and lost each of my digits to shark bait bets. It wasn't the highlight of my career but maybe you will be. Anyway off you go. Little mister dear.

18/08/2013 - ROUGH GOODBYE

Rough goodbye in the Christian Festival. We saw it later; of course, the premise was that underneath Fantasy they kept black place names and other evil sons of squiggly lettering. Something horrible happens to so many people, doctors are lost to the puppeteer and some of our favourite skyscraper memories were lost. It came back to bite us dressed in futuristic colouring but we retain the option to turn its brain into fidgety fudge that risks awesome flooding. How good it is to be heart-wrenching in teary discussion when you could be fermenting the little things. Whosoever shall be found, shall pale before monopoly and the variety of its tendrils. It’s so fantastic. It’s an evil son breaking the run for the hero of the action film cliché.

Let’s sneak in warrior logic with uppity cerebral rainbow coats, let’s wag the brow with sweaty strings and the rest of the stringent interior. It feels too ghostly to me, too ghastly. Can you dare with blind men to fit them inside the vegetable section of most fridges? Can you do it with an elegant Victorian essence? The map is filled with boyo ham, creviced by fez fandom. We’ll leave the clothes behind, not that they are bad but because the bananas are blinking red. Should be beautiful and recurring and fucking old. I forgot to mention per se and ad addendum. Shackle me with your Latin and lashings of gravel quarry. The mails are bought by cents and radio shows and crappy convoluted disinterest. He always makes it fun to watch.

Motor on, motorboat. Do you feel the hammer? Do you swing through the roundabout? I’d like to see the coming of the gripes with bright redesigning and a fresh slobbery paradigm. The drifting special weapons make green hair with each power-up; burn them up with the psychotic heat. Rivers away so turn your head into silence. What is so weird about marrying the shivery scent? Even if the reasoning is ridiculous, one should be fair to the extremity. You should be a total of five minutes, devoting three of those minutes to exploitative exposition. The master wears the prism and not the villainous king. Never call the villainous king treacherous, he is purely speculative and has a Christmassy thrust.

Appendices go first. Who wants to see an intimidating alien captor? The roles could well be both trashy and progressive as we run all the brothels into the smart people’s groin. It makes us the moist bucks, the whetted coinage, the papery insanity. The last time we saw him he was wholesome and so good at being a hobby unto himself. I know it’s critical and glorious to salivate over and somewhere grand to kneel down in Islamic prayer. We know the general. We know the likeable sword. We know that the month is coming back to the time and conventionality or at least the litter of parsley kittens. I will inundate myself with the yellow form appraisal and see what I truly am.

17/08/2013 - ALL BECOMES CLARITY

All becomes clarity, stripped back and slammed aside. The myths, these repetitious myths that do believe in themselves and don’t sweep away the piles of salt around them. It’s like a blanket thrown from the balcony at the wrong time, just a few seconds from the premeditated incident and perhaps a few yards. Twisting the pages inward violates the wood carver and all his alarmingly racy images. We are occupied by put downs and crowd selection. They base it all on shoe size and little else; it’s a mesa of mischief. It’s sad to see our chances weaken along with the followers and their beautiful tooth sucking.

After twenty three years the Irishman gets to exact his liable wish with all the hustle and bustle of a spilled cup on the lap of the pope’s clerk. It feels like burning but channels inspiration on a more humanistic level. Surely we’ve exceeded our continuance of cable shaming. Let us hurt those who seek to wash away special notices with our flexible cleaning appliances. We have to see, we have to see, we have to become the knowledgeable trolls. Can you show us how to be omnipresent? We’ll take the rest of the trick from there. Just you watch, tyke, we’ll manage it well enough.

The thing is with tradition is we grew it out along with our hairs and reshaped it according to specification just like those silly cuts we insisted on in our heyday. All it took was three years to scare us aside with ironclad witticism. They constantly beat so surely we should beat back with bongo supremacy. As long as we have the endurance gloves, we retain the rights to the upper hand. We’re thinking of turning our hands to a musical. Watch out for those key changes, they defy all reasonable computation. Sewing the circus pockets can only get you so far in this biz.

For thirty nine eons it has been this way: we alternating between being knocked down or bowled over by the respite of soul-searching, them just being those guys. Those guys are built for hating; they are custom made with glue and bits of kettle. Asterisks tickle but ultimately oppress, we realise that now and so should these fuckers. I don’t mean to be inclusive of their flabbergasting ecosystem but we all need to mesh together and see just what turmoil we can eradicate and what we can safely irradiate instead. However negotiation still goes on, our man of the street getting a shuffle step closer to the outside chance of meeting a drunken chief on his way home.

So who is that making a hole anyway? The one over there with the drill and the blazer and the safely knotted sandwich. She looks to be a potential union recruit, shall we try? Somewhere down the line she might make a good free-thinking individual but for now we’ll probably keep her a fine example of futz. Check out the arse too: something of a treacle dive, I’m sure you’ll agree.

16/08/2013 - LISTEN TO INSPIRATION'S FRIVOLOUS CONCERTO

Listen to inspiration’s frivolous concerto, not to its jealous concierges. The headquarters are good enough and grafted to the very flesh and bone of tawdry mountains. You can scale them now or ahead of time, it isn’t as dangerous as the blind man at the foot says it is. You are stronger than he is, you can seek out the herd and watch it flutter away into the impacted rosemary gardens beneath. The greenery has been closed since Monday, as has the hyper-speed portal to Sheffield. You can be a reporter elsewhere though, you can reconstruct your own bay murders. Accomplishment is a fair share for twitchy fingers headed in the correct affluence’s direction. Your greatness knows its own particular brand of husbandry and will not pass the inherent problems onto others. Your greatness is like a butterfly dragging a motorbike and dropping it straight into the chimney top: an act of lively livery whether you like it or not.

Someday you might engage the very strife that ruins perfectly justifiable arguments, you might wear bodices and start a fashion trend thereon. They see samples all the time but when you arrive on the scene the very place will alight with captaincy and unabashed crust hugging. It is nimble to be a man of hairy biceps such as yourself, it is a wise prize-giving to observe and bestow. You make the weary few proud to be a unanimous broken back and give shorts a brand new and enthralling namesake. Yes, you. Of course, you. Absolutely, you. You wonderful bastard, you.

Perhaps you’ll provide us with your immense social appendages, your swinging arc of kindness and kid-friendly intermissions. You would make a mighty fine dinner companion, a harmonious prisoner engorged in a jolly hermit lifestyle. Your wish is triumphant so long as you say it to the right people. The right people are those who gravitate towards you but float around the outer rim of your person. These people aren’t quite as manically ingratiated, more relieved to be peaceful again. They rely entirely on your good faith and the power of your regency. You would make a fine queen or an apt sultan if that was the direction which you wanted to go in. Of course, your advisors will flock and send suggestions, perhaps relayed over vast distances.

You could taste of downy feathers or smell of ready-made distilleries. You are always a cloudy pillow, willing yourself into the continuum. Should the vile like-minded choose to storm in and slice your little head off then the real heroes are two steps closer. The real heroes will swaddle you but they mean well. They will give you two choices: save or slaughter. Be mindful of what they slaughter should you dictate that they slaughter. It could mean your father and his half of the family. The gate ascends for you.

It is your right to reign in height. The price of wallowing is boring note-taking. The true way involves pure self supporters.

15/08/2013 - DO NOT LEAVE THE BESTSELLER BEHIND

Do not leave the bestseller behind in church. Are you looking for Brenda? Are you still looking for Brenda? Brenda again? Brenda’s ageing, surely. They say she gets carried away with bagels and buns, splaying them with butter knives and their labels. She deserves tape, she works better with it, she regularly punctures otherwise. The very thought of the blades of her fingers slackening on paper umbrellas fills me with vitriolic rage. I’m breathing in the chemicals, which is to say I always will. This is it, cutting and depressing as it always seems to be. It makes you bald too or so I’m told.

These angry follicles are forming unions all across my scalp. They slip off my headphones like so much pallid insider information. The sanctity of new ages promises so much, too much for the likes of these broken chains. It makes one realise that more could have been done and that the novelisation won’t suffice for thee, for thine own. The ABCs of injury lawyers cause metric guitar solos, guileless and moronic. But the jasper! The coinage! The plastic affectation! It was all in vain for the priest, he left for the price of one night in San Jose. At least true love won’t sweeten dessert into a red-faced Apache. Anger clouds the beauty of the obligatory.

One thing I know is that the cannons of politics would shuffle forward by about an inch and then hop slightly to the left before withering into a blackhead of threesome logic. It’s like shoplifting but she wouldn’t approve it if she knew about the cabbages we use and leave by the wayside. My boy, she’ll say, how about Australia? Will it change your life?

Will it change my life? Will it make for a good club membership dare? To exit, I blew a hole in the spirit dimension and dangled astrophysics over the edge. It made colours, powerful colours like the flexing of a priest’s arm as he rediscovers the dumbbell weights his grandson left behind. It gets to be like a drug craze, fatuous and Hispanic. It could also be laconic but that just depletes overtime. There are good reasons to expect the enemy to shoot to kill at this point, Brenda won’t defend you when you dive and start collecting bullets straight in the breastplate. You just sit there in your membrane cell instead, gathering platelets.

Meanwhile the forks shrink down the crystals into a state similar to steam, a process that takes several hours and a heavy-going train journey through the South East. Your man is a genius; he discovered this whilst suffering a dizzy nightmare. The polka dot dress compresses itself into an opium file and wedges itself down every throat in a filthy mile. The shields, the doors, the inanimate objects, the other doors: they fail to live up to the original blockade. The vengeance of the first zombie epidemic couldn’t break through, the original blockade sweats hipster lemonade. Step by step and nothing.

14/08/2013 - DREARILY, THE SMOCK

Drearily, the smock goes out of its way to pick up paella and shirty poets, strand by strand. It is indelible and exiled on the outer rim of a fiery tempest, it is the rectory of hazards!
            The Rectory of Hazards lampoons the very variants that make us granted individuals in our Sunday best with matching pyjamas underneath. At least the sex is good, at least the pillow talk is adequate. I’m growing old and groaning all the way to the grand opening of mister mellow.

Mister Mellow is a shifty bloke with garish orange socks that glow in phosphorescent party physics. He is really that good but doesn’t show off out of fear that someone will come around and play a little too long with his hilt. Would Hitler concede that it was early days? How about those disquieting restless broomstick of love? He seems to be a little dot in your matrix of police tackles. Could you recognise the plausibility of rape, rakish behaviour and just snickering. I want to live in low mountain areas where just tall grass snakes dig around for scraps of pretty Royal Mail letterheads. Why are there nuptials from all the ways? Couldn’t a cake making for a garden fence clear it without the aid of a double life?

What does it mean to be starring in an Edinburgh? There’s a fucking girl in the entry station, there’s a boarding school in Canadian phonics! You’re all damp for a kiddie with family living at length. There may well be a PhD to wear as booties from the age of twelve. Mister Mellow was probably there, stroking amoeba and providing special train services with grubby noses. The majority is usually sent across to cantaloupe causality for apparent sakes and babyish deliverance. Haughty hands usually grasp and strain the loving waves of regret.

You must face another day before the yellow light becomes too well crafted and maintained and eventually lost, like her. You know the one, the one behind all the clout and narrow passages. Cowboys may well be the people you originate from but never accept their ideals for your own: the wind-swept conversation concentrates all the stupid language you might spew or spout. Meanwhile he runs all the way and back again before the sun just talks about the lady in the stripy jumper, the one who wants it all but will never strike.

Who is he? A man with needs. They call him something unpronounceable without a surname or a break to breath accordingly. Nevertheless he works sometimes as a graveyard shift nurse using leotards and slippery gunk to reinforce his Sikh law. The harbouring of containers goes practically unnoticed by him, he conceives puritanical adventures for the hirsute consultants among us. He is a devil to lose precisely because of the horns on his head. They regurgitate living tissue.

Erasmus claps to him, Neil pores over his foggy lore, everyone else merely holds a key. His language is dead and shaky at that.

13/08/2013 - PHILOSOPHY OF FILM

PHILOSOPHY OF FILM

 

Let’s delve into some character, some archetypes, some depth or certain quantities of depth. Let’s pick on the little guy in all his ambiance, let’s strip the million dollar actor from the billion dollar project and let’s see what happens. The respect is not a bit, not a part of the grand operatic process of trucking along in cinematic containment. Its contingent, which is to say it might be television. It all depends on the latitude and the pleasure of the audience as they whack off into tomato examinations. The perpetrators of such act claim that they have simply been compromised by Martian musicality that swam into their very naked essence. Would the manly whale take a feel from a blanket of producers? Possibly, they do carry blunderbusses and harsh payslips. But it’s all in the screenplay. If you want to talk back at me, it’s all in the screenplay. Let’s keep it starry!

THUGGISH BEHAVIOUR

 

I have burst my fateful smithy, right as he was making the landscape from horseshoes. He was nobody you ever heard of and you probably won’t seek me out to help mourn him but his widow was quite sweet-lipped and hairy. I’ll make my move in a few weeks time, I’ll punch around the memory of her husband, tussle with his essence until it submits under my romantic beat.  This isn’t thuggish behaviour; this is merely exertion of the ample ideal. More specifically I rip off hacks and disparage the ingenious dead. Let’s say the smithy returns and drops raindrops on my nose that gradually imitate a slimy asylum. There are steps I could take to reverberate the old dust and swallow it till swollen. When I become swollen, I simply then pay homage and think it over in a public place. They’ll see and set their standards accordingly and I’ll live to fight another day. That does not make me a mercenary though, I write my own dialogues.

 

SLAM DUNK/SLAM DUNK/SLAM DUNK

 

They told me I had natural talent and that everything would work out like bullshit in a thirty degree deathbed. Nuh-uh. What really happens is the hat comes off and the truth of the matter is that you’ll discover that failure develops into vibrant pictures of likeable bays. There are points to get across the body of water and lisps to receive them with auteur sensibilities. Lisps have very little to do with lispers and even less to do with director caps, the cinematographer edits and edits until she walks away. Chumps are surer of the validation that acts as the rind of every daily action. We share and we care about the wood and blood and wanton structured walks on Western fronts. Sadly though the stories rarely engage me as I pluck thin clogs from unwatchable cartons. Anyone can get their picture on the cartons, its promotion goes far too far. Let the smack talk roll. Just give me a second to dunk this basket. Five minutes.

12/08/2013 - THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING

The hits just kept on coming. The hits just keep on coming. The time zones slide and thrash about one another with luscious tales and wooden tribunals that stick to the sides like fanciful ridges. The flank is left exposed and the blood pours out over the ancient tome of forgotten lore just to prove a point about baking and how some believe it’ll change a life and transmogrify the humble doe into an astronomical observation. The universe is yammering away and yet the time of day and other handy supplements are busy singing sea shanties. Call me old-fashioned but this is not a done deal that’s on.

Dicks are everywhere and not all of them overstep their boundaries. Dicks were everywhere and not all of them overstepped their boundaries. Instead the plush novel trots itself out onto the green and shows its bowstrings as if they would make an acceptable change for pricey dog tags. They, of course, did because dicks are stupid. They own a head, they possess all its faculties but dare not play them with fountain pens. Sometimes it feels like the elders change the words in order to suit everyone everywhere despite the fact that lace and geese and the sensation of being spoilt for choice still skulks about the Eastern Coast.

Portraiture has become an exciting pastime for those who generally avoid dicks. Whilst they are out protecting the right to speak in the affirmative, the rest of the time it’s like an animal farm. Nobody gets any sleep because that’s only fair and Muslim. Word to the wise, no running from strangers who run the show. They’ll sup your soul and bend over for the love of a loved one. This left one option: third wheel plastic chairs that make everyone feel awkward about being generally a gatherer.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that the trust fund goes out to those who need it most and screw all the rest of the limey suckers in the world who spray Welsh humour around the red and white striped bag aisle. Existential first books: they fill your head with fellatio and all that money that they show in films but that your favourite author never gets to see. I really do hope that the real landlord will be half as fresh and polite. The estimated playing with formal education leaves me hoping for another modernist sleeping mask. It cut eyes in it and left all liquorice packed away in the lagoons of parental pride.

The centre boost of canyon has increased in size by the time we eyed up the lady’s designer scarves. Medicine, Medicine, Medicine. We waited for her next big idea. I hope she doesn’t showcase her usual remarks or plant the Sunday gross expletives into our digestive board game. It’s really quite simple: remark on each area of the world and describe just how it got to be so venomous or shaven. Then again life goes on for charlatan sellers. Win the fucking lottery, why don't you?

11/08/2013 - FORMIDABLE CASTLE FARMS

Formidable castle farms make us watch watching tepee masters. Six normal eighties teenagers are out for fun in the dumb premise when suddenly the dimmer switch slaughters the fastidious mature rating. It felt like bunting hobbling the country divergence in a sort of celebration type thing. They say it is a nice way to be properly metropolitan in a day and age that has lost sight of the tornado that put as all where we were meant to fizzle.  Is this a final showdown? Is this an eruption of underground waves at the same time as the monster truck rally? Shooting spears leads to skewering, both uncontrollable and thrilling. It takes a pinch; it only takes a pinch of a riding winch and drags it out into a fully-fledged rollercoaster attraction. They tell me when the wicked gaunt emasculator arrives; mummy will face backwards and steam up the heavens with condensed plateau.

That is a lot more difficult when water propels itself with homemade bonhomie and shackles the tanks that once dared to contain it. It has very little time for ladies of the daylight saving, it makes sure they aren’t consorting with robots first. Launching onto the locked-in tragedy unfurls all Christian machinery so the water has to be certain that its actions will be effective and well fed.  Please continue to efface and overthrow the chewing chewable Nazi Empire and do not placate the implication. I had some German food recently and it tasted primarily of Erasmus’ afterburner collection, smoky and filled with aphorisms. The pants fling. A reference to Rule 47 and other adorable penguin prophecies. It might well have been a finger above super awesome but the octopi stole all our bricks and ruined the majority of our fun. The beards grow out straight into the comments section. Nobody likes Erasmus like Neil.

All girls ruin the synchronicity of Mesopotamian flinches with good technique. There is a rare bit of diversity in every one of their projects, set about by flames and pushed into motion by chimpanzee faces. Fascism makes a nonce out of Neil, teaching him treacle shivering and parliament japery in shifts. Could the suits contain knitted ties? Could the suites contain knotted toes? Strap in, folks, it’s going to get very chilly very soon. Tugging testicle curlers leads the malleable mind to lock, drop and break the miasmic rift. Creation starts with a wizard hat, inside a wizard hat and doesn’t change until the natural colour muddies itself with blonde highlights. It’s better to stay airborne whilst no-one understand the glory hole and what it could transport. The theory goes on to claim that cold turkey might strike bumpers deep inside. The collective term is ‘nuzzling’.

Let us venture to the games cupboard and press our lips against steamy butter. You never told us it would tip up or make us feel angular. If only you’d shift a few verbs and consonants around make us ‘angelic’. Could we be prettier please? Pretty please?

10/08/2013 - YOU ARE A WRETCHED BEING

You are a wretched being getting stuck into lazy expense. What magnificence of anatomical holes! What fine malleable rolling pins! Give me the shells for five fifty an hour. So the bimbo headquarters comes to grips with the grave flatulent forty eight that resides in its system. Lesser guns walk the full mile like a massive computer curry.                         There are so many reckless wastelands over the nuclear plant.  Sometimes it amazes me that...line! This time the contract will finish you off for good. Was there an action? An impending force that weaves swoosh into                  ripple effect seconds. The poop! The poop! The poop of winter! Running comes from younger patients, purely to channel Memphis in nineteen fifty seven. The script flays the vortex, tempers it with anti-matter bar-walking. The relocation to different spots inevitably leads to Camelot. Come on you pansy, it’s time to be overtly despicable for once in your lily livered needs. Ten seconds to go, effortless and uninformative where utter crap is concerned.                              As for you, the one they call The Spanner Cane, time demands less of you. You need to cut the monumental crap and back away from the defensive production line before you fiddle about with anymore livestock. It’s not even astronomical, it’s just astrological and nobody can let go of the unfortunate spelling error. Typo – is it a typo? It’ll do, it’ll see the matter through to the end of its implosive spectacle. Your few words are probably better off being alone and wretched, just for the sake of the children who might suffer had they not been kept away with them. If you were in the middle of a battlefield, what would you do?         Read scenes. Step toes. Farthings. Salad forks. Keep down. Retain the messiness with Viking helmets. Back the dream weaver afterwards.

 

Goofy pigeons are the only things that can make it through the night that can even find the will to bake at the end of everything that fell. As far as crowbars go, the tepid nature of this particular burst of hatred is not enough to crank up the martyrdom. Not that we care about sponsorship or other giggly attempts at emasculation. Do you have any water           at the end of the interpretation? The second to last marriage figures are opinionated enough and distressing within our epic imaginations. They’re only epic because we’ve trained and trained and covered the budget with Korean tapioca.              There are many reds and greys dulling the palate, casting aspersions on the filler plate, rendering the crab claw delicacies three dimensional zeppelins of seafood. Don’t slash the bags, dude, the animation emaciates low floored testes enough as it is already. Meanwhile the opus matches everything else, justifying the bigger bits of pieces, the kind of ‘What if-s’ that placate the lethargic avatar with eschewed nutty intentions. Those who don’t understand will be ducked in                one      genius                                      liquefied with crazy        pants and managed by disgraced       walkie              talkies generation by generation. Having seen it, you’ll spoil through.

09/08/2013 - QUELLING THE GREATER GOOD

Quelling the greater good requires incalculable catastrophe. It might not be such a bad example right away but it’s possible to see the heading from the beginning while it sits there with its thumb in its fundamental arse, taunting itself with endless bull jokes. Taking the propriety by the horns is a final defeatist’s coral act, a source of refuge in the flaming delight. This is what kills it: these clowns are retarded in their learning development. Death is not a funny kaboom, it grunts with gristle sticking out of the side of its grisly girded maw. The nitpicking has laundered fine television and other dwindling establishments with the overwhelming power of children being redeemed through their attempts to damn the convinced suits. This battle is going in a very metaphorical direction, hurrying and slapping all the way to that punch line set-up of a bar. The booze is stilted but mercy still shows, it is shewn through banished citadels.

The spaniels are armed and consecrated so bow if you need more grinding support. Rest assured, the face will be very well handled, very careful and very tasteful. Winning with little things leads to beautiful climaxes and extended comic book series. We pound. We flounder. We command the epic adventure with workaday breathing methods. The apparatus stymies the odds with torrid dish cloths, the kind with which it polishes its gleaming edges. The hipster breach will lead to all of you going toe to toe with us blind folk and we don’t take no flack. Our greatest asset is working within universal law; your greatest asset is falling in love with a gooey caramel centre. Who has the more distinct personality? Drill for long enough and games will prove themselves to be all-encompassing questions forged in popcorn machines and all the authenticity therein. This will come from showing us. This will take down everything from the banners to the reeds to the blackened case. Who dares take advantage of the nth degree anyway? Anyhow is so far from American, it is McCarthy. Erasmus knows all about the creators.

Ask and you shall receive the loudest key played by Asian fingers with burlap fingernails. It gives us hope for adults and karate and the early days that hover between them. It’s not even a case of mastery, of green lights. This is brilliant from a marketing standpoint; it raises the animation to art form. It is exactly the sort of thing that should be mentioned early on for every day for the rest of your fun life. The seconded entertainment. The cryogenic ostracising. The blowing away of Buddhist kid shows. Let’s talk down to platelet size, to beach golf mindsets. It perpetuates at a pinch and makes honest folk out of Northern symptoms. At least we can acknowledge not quite when given the farthing solution. Pass the buck, the weather forecast, the overall teachings that remain clinging to the insane wall. The razors make things unselfish, the razors keep things buttered.