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?