01/08/2013 - FAITHLESS PIRATES

Faithless pirates to the sack – git! The pretty maidens are out to pout and dress in maudlin territories. They say the sailing rump has a bride for a solution, a set of classes will ensure that you get the same before your dour personality turns to sour regale. The tendrils are worth fifty fans going gaily into the rocky horizon. They latch onto me like TNT measure for measure and don’t activate just to see if the harpies will take notice. They wouldn’t obviously because that would mean handkerchiefs over animus faces. The peculiar circumstances are witnessed by the sir knight as he shuns the lapping of renounced waters. They tainted his armour, sawed off his left arm with gritty sand clumps. How rare! How righteous! How now!

            Can you be anymore erstwhile? While you tighten the buckle on your dutiful boots, I’ll give up my securities to your unfortunate years, the ones I can find on your face anyway. Your cheekbones make me misty-eyed and grasp for singing twigs. To such a one, this ongoing film brigade should be plain and plentiful. The waters cast their eyes on the man’s hair and shoot apart the waves with ironic blasts. They say so much as they disappear, as they conspire to emancipate the brothers with leaps of faith. What names should we overstep anyway? The dubbing makes it a disquieting experience unless the bonnet cancels out the worst of the eighties. Of course there is no corpus here to hear except the Wailing Mabel. Erasmus recognises her but feels strange about seeing her in her underwear. This phantom posits opera as taking her prisoner and pressing her palsy pals into Penzance. I see more maidens than just Mabel; she is standard by comparison and yet undisputed. This information will stop this vicinity from ever sleeping again.

            More information may regenerate the deadened senses with sorties and surprises. It’s against the will of the Mega to object. Our parents reject the waiver with ideal prisoners, friendless and orphaned by misgivings. Have you ever known what it is to be the best at thinking? Better than the boys in the lab, finer than the point at the end of the sidelined propaganda scheme. These children are ruined by corral paupers, bartered with by soldiers and shat upon by raspberries. It does not admonish my glory or my guilt; it simply gives me easier diction and less of a cloudy temper. The crimes are not altogether void of feeling; they teach strife for mousy decision-making. The intuition is killing me, the foresight even more so. It’s a psychic knife to the stomach and other processing units, twisted to make my singing ever so slightly softer and sweeter to conjugate. My mane of hair channels holy requisites and becomes its own liberty again.

            We are as Irish as our guardians, playful as shrivelled hair combs covered in tincture edges. The wet sounds come again to perform a reprehensible summer of gloomy castles and the light therein.