08/08/2013 - HE WAS A FORMAL PAINTER

He was a formal painter, stabbed in the neck by punctured liability. Don’t squeeze the windpipe or we’ll have to stroke it and all. He decided to get far away from the preposterous nature of all this, as far away as possible. It didn’t help that he was a paraplegic. His siblings went to war. He didn’t.

There were four causes to be worthy for, to run out of the door and straight through paleontological skylights. The ballot papers led him there and shot him into new dimensions. He didn’t want to die but the laws dictated that the liability should be fed accordingly and without reserve. The pretty woman was the bait but she pawed the ground too long for his liking. He shuffled around her and became the cushion his father had always known him to be. It demotes the senses through their nasal pleasure. Some of it slides away, certitude.

Totally threatening stutters pried open his long clutched cause and left him sufficiently off the telly and more on the side. He was lucky that he didn’t break somebody, in the shafting. He feared that nobody would understand his expectant inspection of every corner and just some of the crevices; he dreaded all the incessant running that seemed to be ahead. Messages come through each mistake, he resolved. He was a natural born resolver of interesting lives. Why collapse though? Why suffer the effects of tremors and blankets? It swaddles and vibrates okeydokey. His children would always struggle to see the world through his twitchy womanly eyes.

It came off eventually, the eyes of awe. Who knows what lies in the bottom of a council flat? Unwelcome visitors figure the issue out in their own fine way but how would that translate to an entirely different generation? Sometimes it’s good to be bashed about, a pleasant reaction to retaliation. It leads to original uploads flying off in salubrious bed chambers. The time has indeed come, arrived by train and doctors would like to keep it in for some serious monitoring. Time has been seen throwing up lately and needs some sisterly opinions quick before the situation progress into an undividable state of play. Saying goodbye is something that comes easily to our formal painter, he always leaves within the first 24 hours.

Then again he never once assumed the responsibilities appropriate to his kind. He is usually too busy playing football, shouting ‘touche’ whenever a strict parent comes over to reprimand him for hogging the ball. The operation is simply disgusting to the mother of five, she expects straight-talking and gentlemanly complacency. The formal painter constantly worries his senior nurses, the one’s he fascinates and flirts with. They pop utopian dictation all over his jaunty bonnet and act all smart like. They bring his breathing under control and probe his primary orifices more out of starling humour than proper schizophrenic medication. It’s a terrible affliction to wear under the sun. He loses independence with every fussbudget that strangles him.