30/09/2013 - TO RECKON TO EKE

To reckon to eke is such an absurdity, it needs no title and requires no particular blasphemy. The connotations are always blue on the side of that street, they wear shades and were at one time or another good at it. Now to outrage means to identify, and to identify means to acclimatise. These events have no problem to get ready together, crossing off the many versions of you in the grip of a hedonic pregnancy. You could take some logical money with you but it's best that you keep out of it for as long as the darkness takes to withhold its cheap cuts of meat. The shares are like spoils, are like loony writs. It's absolute glamour clamour, if you think about it the sauce could assort itself into a new and stringent pattern of bread and butter. It takes a mild shot of awareness to bend the chest around the blend, going tick, tick, tombola. With recipes like this you can be certain to forge a powerful performance throughout the olfactory disruption, see how it washes apart the embezzled springs. Well at least Pavlov had it right under the thistles, kept it right in between his salty frolicking. The blaze of hah over the tundra of tangential evidence: you see it? You do? Well leave your heart to soak in this Sunday desert. You could go for half eleven, you could depend on the hockey as your Mr Menu trumps most of your expectation with his fine slut's soothing voice. It's time to go, good boy, it's tambourine toboggan as a lolly stick learns of its lifetime. The king comes to hone his practice and load his guns with the remainder of all that practice. We've all had a wonderful time in 1999 but the talk is getting far too congenial for worms such as these that are lapping at our third set of feet. That trick to the health of me, lost my hand in Indonesian Perfume, submerged it and dunked upwards to see what the air might bring. There were only a few minor faults to the entire ball game: the flutes, the Guatemalans, the flukes and the right to say what's what in a free world of unadulterated pornography. The text is telling me lies again so shoot it with your eye beam and just walk away. I'll cover the matter up, you just open the crate, see what crawls out.

 

As the grave made over itself, the itch began again and the novelist did all that was in the publisher's power.

 

The day could be saved as it could also be salvaged. Maybe they share the same fashion.

 

Honesty really is a cornerstone for praying mantis antics but it teaches them cliché tricks. This is what they need to survive the night.

 

Oblique, I'm oblique, she's oblique, before you know it we will all be oblique. As for the one's with money, they can't afford to be anything more than bleak or better clean-up guys.

29/09/2013 - TENNIS TRICKS

Tennis tricks. These are tennis tricks. Everything is tennis tricks. Tennis is tennis tricks by its very definition. The game cannot be a game without the possibility of being underhanded. The game gives you rickets if you don’t play it right. If you involve any little ones, they will falter and be ground up into the clay and you won’t be allowed onto that particular court if you’re not wearing shoes. Tennis is a good place to start a placebo group. Tennis lacks elements of itself. Tennis declines every moment you’re not devising new strategies to win at it. Tennis becomes. Tennis is fashionable. Tennis employs all the rest of the boys from the street block but not you. Tennis is predetermined. Tennis is psychology in a motor boat. Tennis unwinds but never unfurls. Tennis reclaims control. Tennis blasts through furnace hardware. Tennis lives again. Tennis is a game. The game does not trust old men.

In case you didn’t know it, filigree is a transplant of clock faces into memes. In case you didn’t know it, most tidal waves are caused by unwarranted erections. In case you didn’t know it, the creepy jailer is dead in fact. I can you didn’t know it; the grey of the moment is an imperfect representation of hegemony. In case you didn’t know it, a woman is at your door. In case you didn’t know it, she’s a lollipop salesman. In case you didn’t know it, that’s actually salesperson, not salesman. In case you didn’t know it, I knocked for her. In case you didn’t know it, she just wants to tell you about her day. In case you didn’t know it, her day involved transparent socks and gamey legs. In case you didn’t know it, the key to her crystal necklace lies on the nape of her back. In case you didn’t know it, she has a grave in the name of her father who disappeared over the Atlantic. In case you didn’t know it, she comes from a long-spanning lineage of retrospective goat herders. In case you didn’t know it, she loves you. In case you didn’t know it, you have five letters imprinted onto the left ventricle of your heart. In case you didn’t know it, you can’t see these five letters, they’re so tiny. In case you didn’t know it, there a bags to be picked up and thrown out. In case you didn’t know it, the car has cup holders and an overzealous driver. In case you didn’t know it, there are places where you won’t be gainfully employed.

Trapeze trapezium on a tuberculosis basis, straddling a strident podiatrist and telling him to tail a placid plastics division. Any idea is runny my dear, all positrons are poised for perplexing visitation out beyond the moocher stars. The tiny, tinny pyjama pants are only American, only Armenian and ready to open your consecutive windows. The maw is gaunt and the eyes are soaked with sweat. It is a hot moment.

28/09/2013 - MY ANGEL OF A SUIT

                My angel of a suit is in a different suit in my room and is telling terribly flaccid remarks to a backwater mirror filled with yokel thumbprints. My poster of tyranny is observing the incident with a cool sense of mania and will not tell me precisely what was said. It's a calling of mine to know exactly what every single inanimate object in my purple sex toy room is saying to each other, I have shady secrets behind those walls and I would much rather air them on my own benefit. The rats are getting strong suspicions where my demented buggy is concerned, they've seen it bobbing around in the Thames proclaiming that husbands are merely the sock puppets of their father-in-laws. It is an information age, or so the proven minority discusses on their weekly podcast.

                Honey production goes on for hours and hours showing no sign of changing colour or even density. I work very hard usually to see the emotional range of most light bulbs but they just can't take the sort of depraved pictures I show them. These are the pictures that lie at the bottom of my wallet, gathering muck and spunk marks. Exactly one week ago, I was the five o'clock shadow and now I'm merely an attachment to it. This is a captor's game, a dangerous dangle in the authority's leakage. A hoarder makes for weak paste and even frailer tea bags but the media has yet to recognise this as gospel. A sixteen year old told it to me in confidence so I must prepare for the inevitable Cuban catastrophe to fall and flail around on my shoulders. I have been rather unkind. I won't say why, at least not until the hospital.

                A crooner leaves me with gold in my pockets, that's the beginning of an adage in case you're wondering. Of all the things to say to a kindly crooner I ask him where he keeps his bathroom salts. The crooner replies that he's just going somewhere to someplace, passing the whole door-to-door business as he goes by. It's a fulfilment, a promise held up in silence as the isotopes gather around to exhume it. Why does the process take so long? Why do I grow wings but continue to squeak? I'm headed for the park but sometimes it feels like I'm surprisingly divergent. That'll teach me to scarper when ladies are present.

                Over a hundred hours ago I barfed on a burst of scallops. I can forget it very easily but I see no reason why anyone should forget about it. It's the character of me that's compelling, not so much whether I'm a black dude or not. I did shoot a man once, by mistake. He thought I was a swamp dweller and I assumed he was out to teach me the Laws of Hanukah. He told me there are no such laws but that never once lowered my guard. So I lowered him for plenty of gold bars.

27/09/2013 - HYPEROPIA OF A FIVE POUND NOTE

HYPEROPIA OF A FIVE POUND NOTE

by Youth Worker

This is an educated article about that bejewelled philistine The Time Smooch. Fear him. He comes around here from time to time and that's just a lucky guess. I've a war zone of secrets going around on unscented rollerblades in  my biological noggin, it's hard not to do background visits, not to be compelled and, in some respects, physically attracted to them. Most of these secrets and the visits they inspire surround the Smooch and his phantom tics. It causes me to be spontaneous, poisoned and establishes a virtual chemical plant of brooding which it then goes on to cut down and implode. Suffice to say it's tender, so tender and so classy as well. A pretty woman can obtain plane tickets at anytime of the day or so the Smooch has found. There's something that's not so important about his regime.

 

He employs cold medicines as his henchmen, often preferring the tablets and sugar pills, often opting for their sisters. The deadly things he does to women when time is paused cannot be expressed by anything other than the sweaty, Moorish lips he puts on to do so. They're so transparent, you could make sarcastic limericks out of them. This man has a hand he uses specifically to call over women implicitly. He does this exquisitely and dolls out his malnourished love addictively. He makes love to the adverbs and they just follow him around. It causes entire backgammon games to crumble and develop pointless pointy noses.

 

There are of course many great ways to tip off the cops to the Time Smooch's presence: you could tick them off yourself, you could forward roll, forward roll, uppercut them; you could tidy their desk lids, you could send Parisian demands in ovulating envelopes. The pig fuzz peelers really couldn't give a damn how you treat them so long as they can ascertain the frequency which the Time Smooch is broadcasting on. It's mostly golden oldies with a few eclectic sandblaster remarks that you'd expect from such a smarmy arabesque of a man. I mean to say that he was a man until that fateful day that he found he could hold down time and churn it up a little so that he can grab a girl he quite liked and stick his leathery beetroot down their oral factors. He never goes further though, just for the sake of his mother's pride. He does the rest for his father's astronomic disapproval.

 

This is a personal message for the Time Smooch, you're going to prison and you know you're going to prison so why don't you just come out and tell us why you never shake the girls down at the same time. These babes, chicks and walking sticks are loaded, they always keep stuff down their cleavage, five bob notes according to the good flicks. The bad flicks are there to prove that time travel is innate and that womankind is some sort of dusty keyboard but they're bad, very bad.

26/09/2013 - KILL IT DAD

Kill it Dad, how you love it. You made Ma old before her time with all kinds of Mexican trappings and quadruple bypass surgery that really wasn't ever needed or called for. I have the spatula ready for the informal gathering of streak molesters, I'll scoop those mo-fos up and smash them with their own macho crowns. It's business, like. The Scary Mary's have me under contract and are wielding the damn thing like a recently scrubbed scroll. All kinds of weird peeling flesh passes me during working hours and I wouldn't wish it on anyone with even half of my charisma. I'm never going to say otherwise, present company excluded.

                Yes, you go stand by the window, Little Sister. You've been here since the very beginning, begging from the cats of the neighbourhood for the scraps of caps and the claps they tend to get from available prize fighters. Their art is dead but dear to me, in the prospect of its return. How the coke and coal come forth to declare righti'mgoingright. They thrive on gypsum so whoever supplies it should suppose that their eyewear is in need of a fresh mould and perhaps a quick dissolve or two. Wakeupyouwankerbankingexecutive, the coal says to the coke, yourmissusisvitrifyingbecomingtwistingandbecomingohboyandstuff. Anyone would think that the donors had all come out to play and that no-one was ready for scythe-wielding Ague. The walls are filling with petrol and yes, that pump is there because of you Sister. I have PMS.

                Sorties are happening all over the kitchen table, political espionage steers all the flying fucks so that they maintain altitude and never once frolic on landing. I am essential to the completion of this erstwhile, hitherto process and my weapon of choice is a pair of socks from some other beer-guzzling bloke. You might have seen him, he's about thrifty feet high and drinks water for Christ's sake, which is to say he drinks the water in the name of our lord and saviour. The dude with the beard and the abs. Too much charm methinks.

                While you're here and just standing around, I'd like to introduce you to Michelle, Ambrosia, Philippe, NATO, Quasimodo, Salamander, Dialect, Fortitude, Perdition, Placidity, General Plastics, Not Good, Piracy Claims, Extrapolation, Interpol, Brontosaurus, Manky, Sue, Dollop, Misogyny, Half an Hour, Pouter and their varying entourage. Don't you worry if you don't get their faces the first time, they are essentially the same individual, the same figurehead I keep falling in love with whenever I walk into a timeless room. It's a deliberate fact that the Whiny Terrapin is messing flagrantly with my life via spinning wheelie bins and dog physiotherapy. It couldn't happen at a better time in my line of thinking of work that I should possibly but not absolutely be doing. It's worth a sigh or two then whatever you want. I'll stick my hand in my pants and gratify myself until Monday at 10pm. You might be able to watch the events on demand.

25/09/2013 - KEEPING HANDY IN A SATCHEL

Keeping handy in a satchel is like any other way of lining up to under the Insanity Guillotine. We may well have outmoded that particular concept half a century ago but the times remain as flexible and reflexive as ever. No amount of preaching will save the married man who forgets his scuba equipment on the day of his sister's daughter's wedding, he will be brought down before the one known as Niece. Young fertility will be the death, destruction and eventual binding of those who defy conceptuality and art's regard. Well wishers can only arm themselves with spent matchsticks and parts of their much maligned pearly gates. The friendship of some people is like any other nerve: if struck it will twang. Notify the children.

                Mind you don't confuse them with the kiddies though. The one with the trilby is neither, he is an angry man who bears grudges in a small stunted manner. His mannerisms are deceptive so don't let yourself down, pay the fuck awake. I have a gigantic robot, nay a fleet of gigantic robots, well they're moderately sized at least. These generally quite big robots will come and steal all the oxygen from your refrigerator and leave behind incompetent nursery rhymes in its moon boot wake. These robots are famous for being infamous no matter how you feel about them. I've heard you want to make one of the taller ones your lover, sadly we can only oblige with the broken ones. We don't believe that any automaton should be left behind, no matter how faulty or short circuited.

                I see you have another box in your mouth and your legs are rigged to run a thousand feet before launching into improbability, maybe landing on an index page of some forsaken lore. If it's a tale of derring-do don't bring it to me, post it to the murderer's address. She needs good fodder for her sadistic chime crimes. That's Clang association for you, it spits in the eye of most grandmothers. But they're convertibles so who cares for them really? It's tragic, mildly tragic but irreversibly true.

                Somebody shot me once you know, whilst I was listening to Men with Shades who wanted to portion out and displace my hedge funds. They make me seem all fat nosed and stupid but at least I don't conform to their fascination with dinosaurs from the Cousin Menagerie. It's a voluntary glad rag thing I just have to go through with whilst the bullet circles and rewinds the zipper back up the wrinkled shaft. It's a synopsis just for you so put on your top hat and tails and take me to the happening, the rich are away and I want to see what they leave behind and why its deemed so unimportant.

                But first, the butt. This is your butt and it is an engine. It doesn't run smoothly and it often grinds against naughty language but it's still an engine running vertically. Let it suck at approximately forty nine beats per second.

24/09/2013 - NOTHING EQUALS THE SPLENDOUR

Nothing equals the splendour of twenty seven countries applying magic to their leaked documents. This could mean anything, a draught of design or a designated draft or anything equating to Vulcan disillusionment. Ah, a spirited debate! How it snaps the hoe within thirty seconds of contemplative quiet! It makes all men wretches bearing wrenches on their awkward shoulder blades. The sales are encyclopaedic rhetoric, a game of la-di-dah on every available games console at every recommended retailer. To be so sure is to be Russian indeed!

                About two or three years ago, the pale-faced 'pretty much' escaped the Token Cockney's lips and splintered its way through an entire elevator shaft filled with egg shells. The glamour was too much to behold and slap bang and slap dash. It was intriguing to be a scientist trapped in a cellular compartment, fondling a circular component as the winches come calling in. How can they still be itchy after all this time? The shouting is a soothing composite, a regular header for concrete misandry. Don't stop everything whilst on a poor man's bike, it's a cheap trick fixed onto the back of a black actor's glasses. All it really takes is a bit of complacent wandering in fatuous dragon badlands and perhaps a quick visit to the lavatory to knock her head off, whoever she might be that's inside.

                It seems to be a mix-up mixture of cock-up blooper blinking, this is the will of God's delicate feet. They ache at the prospect of wearing bloody sandals again, especially in hot weather. God prefers to go bald and not act like its big thing in public. He made Hell into watered down Italian cuisine, specific with rapiers. It's time to be delectable: a shit and a wank in a 'Let me out!' The cracks are forming in the author's dedication and blood is ricocheting off of the poor sod's colt. Confession takes a lot of asking, history begging questions again and all over again to prove its forgiveness of the stark.

                The Madam of Oft will probably get time off for good behaviour, provided she exposes her thyroid gland to the press. The men in hats with cameras need to know about every little synapse in her head and the other bits and bats rustling around in her trooper vessel is a good enough sort of start. Withdraw your combs and let go of God's admission, wanting leads to yearning and yearning leads to the fraying and foxing of invaluable pumpkins. Just start the tap off and see, these monologues run on then along.

                All the tall women are maxing out their lungs with beef and household appliances because the numbers on their calculators don't quite mesh with the configurations they see in the waking hours of their head. It's going to turn into a stand-off at the Mediterranean, it's going to end in a lonely man sewing his wife into a master plan for Heaven. The Madam shall last in the opposite grove. At peace. At peace.

23/09/2013 - THE BABY LOSES ITS CELEBRITY

                The baby loses its celebrity with every pointless advert it advocates. Occasionally the boredom comes on you like a precious metal feeling up calcium sulphate, it turns the ladies on something Lilliputian. I once was larger than the river and more forgotten than the Apache Nook. We often go dogging for the sake of epileptic foodstuff and the way that it satiates our misanthropic children. It's a new star. A new star is coming through, they've been saying but  it's hard to find the pinch of salt to take that statement with so we gulp down another spoonful of sugar. Wouldn't it be amazing to combine the two, make a lyric out of it? Nobody would care but at least we would care in some insignificant light. Do you feel the heat of the big yellow circle crossing and locking up your shoulders? Does it make you feel like a man reminded of his impending mortality? It really is all about mitosis, provided you can get a decent tractor to handle it. Lawnmowers never count so don't try to scratch yourself to win one as a prize. It's just too whimsical.

                So off me at the pub lunch, take a knife with a jagged step and launch it at my forehead, just between the dimples. That would be where I keep my diplomatic decision making skills and mail so you would be doing us all a favour. Preserve the governing body by extracting the right section of pain and let it feed into you with gusto. Otherwise it'll shoot its mouth off in public and see the curve of crepes in the glow of Golden Delicious.

              Boss, what are you doing? You've come back to Africa just to tell the workers to think for themselves and shut up about offshore accounting difficulties. It's a timewaster, a matriarchy in the making. The retailers are doing what they can to keep up hegemony but there's no telling where the next few hours of visual beatitude might take us. The factory is clean for all pencil types but contains one dirty little section for videogames and the like. It's not a warm war museum after all, it's a decadent's hideaway in the UK. All the way round you'll see the bastions and their cataracts manifesting themselves in purple snooker pockets. Our boys down in the science lab have a name for it, the effect: GORE. This isn't hydrogen, it's the real sick stuff that shuts out all stiffs and emotional squares. Here they come which is to say here it comes.

                I once saw a black man and a white man and a yellow man and a man with tattoos all across his face talking about the red man as if he were a minority. I was inclined the refuse any further extensions on their holidays for such obvious racial broadcasting. You told me not to though so at least I've done this one thing you asked.

                I'll go sit down and join a convent.

22/09/2013 - MAGIC WORK

Magic work, shiny nipple, wrongdoing, overstayed staying over, wasps, sketch notes, sketched notes, notable sketches, assistants, assistance, funny bouncers, choreography, goodness, gravy, cruelty, dirty pool. The monster keeps on coming and has just adopted a hat for a thousand political deals, not even the whimsy can hold me down, let alone protect me. Snoring happens around people and you become indivisible pie charts. The galaxy shakes at the colours and dipping lines. So many troughs caused by abrupt rehashes without the conduct of a polite audience. It is drawers. It is becoming. It is the bomber’s breakfast at the Normal Bay. Replacements just keep coming in.

So much halfway prescription to the callout, visions curl and darling goes crazy. She is a lamb she has a helm on her colouring book. Take away the audio, strip it and all will bode well. Madness is production signing like a cow in coolers and weird crystals percolating. The field goes left and the north goes right and the whittling waits and pauses and mugs its way out of boredom. Shucks. I need to go rethink the worth from coming back to awesome hills and fandangos that rely there. None of the above becomes wizened but some of them turn me into a dirty fluke. Flying grabs the scratches and kills me now and holes snap back and forth and couple themselves with the rest of the top five.

The gum gun gurney garner massive lupine drooping is usually red and white and tastes like spearmint. Why was she in the morning? It goes out for regardless money and sells shirts for discount furry banknotes. Don’t let us be silly and stratified, don’t elope. It turns me temporal. Give bravery time to suck away the red from the Redhead Inc. Sharpen the prequel while you’re at it, it’ll kill the live action. At least on a simple basis, the nightmare envelopes a soapbox like a duck in the night and stands by it with perfection and minimal corny shots. It rocks with long overdue captivity. Could be a good idea, could be a very good idea for January’s backburner. This moment turns me into a fabulous hammer stretching out the red memory of a fast and famous affectation. It fits me into a drastic core, flopping around with the final edit. Renting, watching, sliding, crusting, blazing, tuning, telling, welling, echoing, clasping acoustics with their own damnable patterns.

You hear that? It’s a karaoke model zipping past the mischief cheekbones. The only screen that transforms is a marching order pounded out of squishy newness. It communicates my shame with big hand gestures, broad hair flicks and lip pouts. The patchwork matches are intercut with interrelated incestuous bed boards, very cinematographic. It defiles the camel technique with medium-edged metallurgy. Could we sell out the cell out of young gradient. Metacrisis. Graduates will back me up on this one, expression is hard for the girl behind me. Women are no longer safe from the process all over again.

21/09/2013 - CRASS MARKETING

Crass marketing is kept aloft by munchkins with cigarettes jammed in their polite little mutter slits. Crass marketing is delivered by a saxophone on the back of a feathery honk that dissipates and shudders whenever it veers left. Crass marketing is received by the king’s men and is usually received well. The king’s men are skilled at detergent cleaning but choose only to talk about the crass marketing they’ve recently taken up for some weekend reading. Not all weekend reading is crass marketing but all crass marketing is weekend reading and not the light stuff either. They make it rough for the pyjama-wearing press to comprehend and pass off as discordant drum solos, they lay it out like a snare. That’s why it’s ‘crass’, no-one else would want to know if they found it out for themselves. Get the right audience in from the off and your golden or so says the now elderly Mr Thank, chief of sponsorship. He’s taking five right now.

The boys in Sasquatch pelt would like to guide you through to the improved buildings via the impoverished hallways just so that you get to see how much better we’re making things here in spite of other things. We’ll lead you around like spaniels then pet you down with various luxuries and perhaps a night or two with Goodly Marsh. I hate to leave you but these boys really do know their shit, you don’t get to be cavemen for doing a half-arsed job here. They love their wives and summarily discard their secret gay lovers just to be here, accepted and recognised. I may be paid more of the warm bucks but these boys are no slackers, yessiree.

Now, as for your fragile band of secretaries, I will need to take them aside and rummage around in their drawers for half an hour, maybe longer. No reason, I’m just a jutting pervert with quick fit fingers. I treat the pussy like a page and scrawl my own underhanded roman a clefs whilst rustling my chains simultaneously. They keep me employed purely because I’m a good judge of character and eternally grateful. Or so I tell the censors. To love another person is to salivate, in my salty case. I climb though, I stumble but I climb with fancy grey t-shirts. This here is the Garden of the Lord, the boys in the Sasquatch pelt will take you down the next turning and maybe leave parts of you there. Nothing too important though: we’ve been sued for that kind of poop before. There you go.

 

Well, there they go. I’ll probably get them back before they leave the premises. They will leave the premises right? They’re not joining the crusade? Jolly good. There is something I have to do tomorrow so they really can’t be staying any longer than that. I know it’s unrealistic that they would but you never know with these people. They have an awful lot of time on their big floppy hands.

20/09/2013 - TWO SYSTEMS TO THE FINALE

                Two systems to the finale. The ships is destroyed, destructed and flooded with its own imbuement. It suddenly comes back to her that she is a toy, a mere toy in front of a thousand videogame bosses. Each boss has a messenger badger that it sends off to prepare the helicopter. They hope to be off by lunch but she is a dork and doesn't have to stand for that sort of thing. It's a medical problem anyway, so hard to restructure. She'll mirror his movements, she'll get there with a timely friendship. It'll sting but that's adolescence for her. She'll turn around and fire at the appropriate time.

                What a dick, she says of the first one, I'll match him one speed-up for all his claims on hell in a hand basket. She then unleashes the cornered procedure and that in turn unfurls the dancing graves, causing an abrupt but tasteful colour change. Swords are being distributed to health centres throughout the Western neighbourhoods, she can turn him to rust before the last blade lands. She unleashes a wonky attack on his abdomen and then flips the switches on his thorax simultaneously. Growing full beards causes amateur heroics involving caustic hammers and cartoons of those caustic hammers so she must do what she can while she can. Her hands are filed down target thumpers, ready for mass distribution of pain and strife. The queue to see her stance is heating up and curling into untidy patterns that get in the way of other pedestrians who aren't quite so interested.

                Despite promising to attend an inquiry on an entirely different matter, the boss will be too busy to attend. She has every intention of lopping off his head and spreading the colours of his sprite polygons onto a butter cracker. She's really turning it up now, he doubts he'll get in another controlled revolution. He sends off the badger anyway to show her kicks to the face aren't fazing him one bit. His teeth are grey blinkers ready for low blows and unexpected yahtzee tournaments. Whatever happens, he'll just have to ramble on and hope that the Fifth doesn't arrive to see his place in such a shoddy state.

                The henchmen with the wired chins finally arrive but their guns are jamming left, right and centre and nobody can get anymore, they daren't pick the rifles and RPGs she has left all over the floor. They can always dance and maybe throw a punch whenever she gets close enough but then that's all that's expected of them with their suitably pathetic pay grade. The words 'severance' and 'package' wouldn't even cross her mind for a second so she has no pretentious quip at the ready when dispatching them. It's all turning a bit penile but she's handling it. She's now reached a state where she believes she was born to do this, that nothing happens after this but that nothing is quite a show and worth a quick glance. Her number is coming up nicely.

19/09/2013 - YOU BARBARIANS ARE FUTURISTS TOO

You barbarians are futurists too, how motherless of you. Go. A. Way. You. Scummy. Mummy. Mollusc. Baddies. Your world view is now suddenly collapsible, entirely malleable in the right sort of coded hands. One little text and you'll digitise and become a flatulent dog animation on my phone. You've had everything and now you're brushing aside your clubs and excess hair to become an upstanding cog in the Greasy Mechanism of Day After Day. You once told me that your poetry was the streak of sodium that climbs up a tourist's back the moment he or she passes through Heathrow Airport but now I'm inclined to question the validity of such a Machiavellian statement. You operate in words and twist them until they hurt the sensitive nipples of Gawky Funk Students around you. My entire family is involved in the Gawky Funk Movement, my little sister is enraptured with the dancing policies. If you see her you might lose this insane choice you've wrapped yourself up in but then again you do seem rather snug in the citizen setting.  I'll have you know that I was cute once and I did wield a laser sword.

                You've even employed a few of your stragglers to become top-ranking snipers with sights set on curious star formations. If you knock that gas giant out of its orbit, I swear to God you'll get the horns and the filthy underbelly. Nobody wants this walking frame anymore, not since it started talking and learning the big bad wolf terminology. I've become a Fortress of Biting but you, you've become a Dictaphone. Not even a good one either, one that runs on and scratches the tape with unrequited rewinds. You're shape reminds me of a geek I used to know, short and quietly calm in the face of creative indecision. His knees never bent outwards like yours do though. That trip to the glossy magazine didn't do you any favours, any more than I ever did. The plan has failed so I'll let you go as soon as you answer me one question: what did you do with the girl? Did she give up and go back to Brooklyn to bleed radiators? Did she slap the depression right across  the sallow face and then just check the radiators? I've got a feeling your responsible for the pipe trail that follows her around. I've never seen it but I can believe it.

 

                And this is the point where the poet says that truncating the past participle is a hanging offence and that the moron who sharpened your pencils for you during your tentative years was in fact a gnome with a vendetta against your productive future. We both know that this is a mane of a lie, it sits comfortably around the bony head, so comfortably it becomes a regular feature. The real reason you're still making grammatical mistakes is that you aren't you anymore. You've dedicated books to some woman that was parallel to our home life.

18/09/2013 - THE GAME IS PAYING

The game is paying, adding to the pot and bleeding out the discrepancies, the deities, the fishy cheese. The old gals are out to play with their collections of sordid fiction, their unwinding balls of profuse 60's remembrance tripe all girded and guarded and trussed up for supper. And it's a long supper with a ouroboros table that doubles as a remote control car track for the desperate thirty something burn victims and their sons to play with. The hub caps are just for show in this part of the house, it symbolises a broad frontier specially made for specific broads from the prominent North Atlantic sea vessels. Holding my hand has lost all reference and even a few of the foregone conclusions. That's the game of psyche, completely different game, doesn't even use a board.

            The dreams are to be spoken and the rattling is just the crushed glasses case on top of the loose floorboard in the dining hall. The ballroom is off limits to the likes of the blind and the blinky, the door won't even creak unless you can established exactly what 'twenty-twenty' means and might mean to the chief pancake flipper. He doesn't toss pancakes, he flips them simply because he doesn't bear a grudge against butter or flour. The chefs that tell you to toss are sex mad platelets trapped in their own quasi-culpable hula party. Hula parties don't involve games that cost because it acts too much like a leitmotif that won't ring true within Jewish mindsets. Thirty brain dead Mongols seem to get it but everybody else struggles to grasp the true and unacceptable facts it contains. These facts are on cheap plastic cards that lose their sheen the more money you gain.

            Chariots are coming from opposing galaxies in order to play you at a tournament of the Wit's End. They seek to preserve the intelligence of their species by propagating ours with shameful losses and free drinks at the bar. The gates are only there to astound trespassers before they can dedicate themselves to the plundering lifestyle. Such a life takes commitment, nay it demands it. We'll survive the eventual takeover by lying down on our stomachs in the few remaining WW3 bunkers and playing tipped-over arcade games and gravity-defying pinball. Nobody wins at Ms Pacman when the embers of battle are flying overhead and above the ground.

            Somewhere I hope to see what all this will ultimately do to me, I really do fancy seeing how soon the ghost inside my accent lets rip the really bad curse words, the one's God neglected to mention in the Bible except in the super secret Navy chapters. I will probably become witness to an inflated womb that regurgitates refrigerated conditions and sways to a tune concealed behind the thin air. I will no doubt be forced to let go of all my sacred property and adopt the persona of a 'Darkie' whatever that may be. I shall sell it with style.

17/09/2013 - WE'RE TANTALISING DOORWAYS

                We're tantalising doorways so that they become gateways and put on the really sexy tights. Then they'll stand adjacent to Australian comedians and spout mindless clichés about life outside the domino dome with all its on-high tampering and wizened disc jockeys. The weed doesn't even get a look in these days, let alone the meth. Bricks come out and play with hangman swords and transfer them into inscrutable data that is blipped and then bleeped onto harmonic cuboid prints. Features conclude the hypothesis but merely understand the paradigm into a new game of hardball physics. And we'll say please, please, please, please, please, please, please bulldoze the Boston Bakers Association Clubhouse. The registrar might let us in but then we'll rush him before he can twist our harpsichord basics into simulated achievements. Could we go on to go off in a permanent way? Cream cakes for paedophiles to be submerged in incorrigible water. It hardens the skin apparently with milk and mud. The defence of the apple is laying siege to the very thought of their escapade, ravaging the league with sentimental skyward conceptualisation. Just off-centre, as it turns out.

            It's a story we constantly make mistakes with, compromising the bystander line with Spanish influenza so that the constituents might go home and think of what they've done. It won't take them long to realise that it was in fact entirely fair and that we served only to interrupt them long enough to have a pool party. Limes all round! Could you put up with anything less than lemons on the television? It's a full time experience, it puts pressure on sixteen year olds throughout Somerset. It's a great way to get rid of that stinking pustule called peer pressure once and for all and encourage homosexual reproduction. It'll take some years to grab onto the appropriate science but we'll get there. We're starting up investigations in Hull. We're using former Navy Seals because who cares for them and their incandescent pep talk procedure? It cuts the underhanded to the quick and produces false illusions with pay check connections. You might see what we're doing but we'll still get there a lot faster without you and your depraved finesse. Step aside, we've only just started to drag the lake for gibbons. Yes, go over there and make good use of that brick wall of pyramid forces. That's an experiment too, it involves honey and that's all I can tell you until the debriefing.

            So you just stand there and consider the lines of symmetry on your friend's face, the pretty friend with the boobs and potatoes and the powerful singing voice. You're already clocking out so we'll just slip the auteur just underneath your crotch. We're hoping to get a reading of just how aroused you get and then make a feature-length film from it. The director won't be chosen because he's no better than the producer. We'll just announce him like the nonce she is. It's a step up from filming corduroy anyway.

16/09/2013 - NEVER TOO LATE TO FORMAT THE PAINTING

Never too late to format the painting and painter within the same soft breath of a salami sentence. Never out of the question to change the spillage into something with a certified heritage and a garden to match it. Never say direction for it is a plain-speaking word that does little to ingratiate itself with the lesser races. Never be posh and polite ahead of the accountancy department. Never knowingly undergo transplant surgery for the sake of the Fatherland, Motherland or some such patriotic whiff. Never let go of this delicate embrace even as it puts the pressure on. Never tip the scales of the waitress before she has time to drop you a stooge.  Never forgive, never elucidate, never nitrify, never doctor false footage, never splendour at the destruction of the insane masses. Never leave the building for so long as you live, may God in Heaven hold your peace with pretty heavy thumbs.

So sayeth I, thus spoke this dude and so on and so forth. I’m really not trying on this case, I’m out to glow right in the cupboards in search of turgid bed sheets. If I find yours then I’m going and I won’t be contacting the porous maniac you did in a flash of shame, of course. What do you take me for? Honesty?  Honestly. I’m a big gay ball of Euclidian butt masks and you should know it, you instructed my whole style whilst I was down in that dank dinky hole called Constipation for the duration of my teenage years. I had big plans but swiftly changed them to see if the basket could handle the rapid transformation from bread into breadsticks. It didn’t but at least we got a few tasty shards out of it. And the dough, oh the dough! Rich in all kinds of nutrients: some naked, others just lost down a groper’s alleyway.

You remember that don’t you, bitch. Sorry, I meant big itch but that amalgamation came out a lot shinier in my head box. I’m not the voice of the people yet but now I have every intention of running my own campaign to see if any loser would neglect there absolute right not to fucking vote like a fucking dinosaur mechanic. I have nothing against dinosaur mechanics personally, I will of course tidy up that statement before the badges are made and neatly tucked into various baby carriages.

                I’m going home to change. I’m going to see where the folders my mother kept have been moved to since the hour and a half I’ve spent talking to you happened. I’m going to learn tons about grammar, maybe even fashion a hat and bangles out of the plentiful features of my discarded papers. Mother went off all snotty this morning and I want to find out what her big secret it. It might just turn that boy’s head over there, the one with the target and the map pledged between his shoulder blades. He looks cute for you.

15/09/2013 - SIPHON THREE FIVE TWO

Siphon Three Five Two Have a Nice Day Going Home. THIS IS JASON CHASE SPEAKING, VERY IMPORTANT. Well, suitably important so send out your love while my bedroom door is still ajar and my vest clings to my herbivore chest. I Am The Only Man Capable Of Boarding This Train Whilst Simultaneously Being Fucking Real About Stuff. I won’t lie; it could turn out badly for that guy with the red headband, he looks shifty and is constantly going to the toilet. YOU SHOULDN’T TRUST THE DUDE EITHER. HE’S A GIT. A GIT IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM, no doubt straddling his detonator.

It only took forty thrifty minutes to override this plane’s circuitry and turn it into the world’s most elaborate particle juicer. I don’t know about acceleration but it certainly gives off a nice buzz, like maybe an ounce. We Are Going To Do It; We Are Going To Go Out With Bare Arms And Hijacked Soul Music Blaring In Between The Gaps. SAY GOODBYE AND PLEASE PROCEED WITH THE GRATUITOUS BETTING. Don’t ask why but thanks for trying your luck, it’s nice to chat on planes. I PROMISE YOU, I’ll Tell Your Babies I Love You With Knives And Nothing Even Remotely Platonic. They are big for their age, THEY WILL UNDERSTAND. I once oversaw them playing award show music to shuffle off the ding dongs of an early hostile takeover. As far as matters go, we are a-go.

The pilot to your left is an inexperience lover, practically a Gored Virgin Who Can’t Do Much With His Womanly Wiles. They’ll pile on top of him and fill his eyes with buggy creatures but then anything is anyone’s guess, they might just go ahead and launch the bomb in the FOREIGNER’S DIRECTION. Poor folk are the most obvious targets but we shall have to see about the rest. Squelching is always a good sign though, particularly when suffering the final death throes of time.

I’m locked in my own pocket, preparing nuclear warehouses for glass shattering and the sound of angry monomyths kissing the language they were unintentionally begotten from. The age old question of going forward will inevitably be answered by chainsaw fallacies, a long series of them streamed together like a necklace and then used to strangle THE CLATTER KEY. Bringing Wives On Board Was a Way to Move It But Then I Don’t Think I’ll Ever Know Quite Enough To Prevent The Eventual Cause of Dying On An Empty Stomach And A Blank Verse Pulley. The controls have been tampered with into a laxative state and the dangerous shorts are being revamped as we speak and soak in our speech, impediment sand all. A misty unprecedented backwater yokel am I! That’s what they’ll say I said.

Have you ever dealt with me in an open-necked shirt? You Will Wear Down Your Wheat And Override The Protocol Constituent With Record Timing Before The Idea Gets Its Chance To Swim. JASON CHASE KNOWS HIS SHIT. I GOT IT STARTED.

14/09/2013 - THE LETTERING OF RAPID DOGS

The lettering of rapid dogs is like a boiled sweet. Charlie brought the leather but he would never accept such a thing to suck on as his reward, it would be far too petty. The poor lady cuts through his territory consistently and insistently denies any all star appeasement. She ties things in fetters to make coming and going easier for the colourful ribbons but then the shreds leave only polite perdition to be desired. Charlie has his charged cigars to sell but the power is down and the eye has a way of taking the shady horse from his big mouth and the fishing line stuck between its Mohawk teeth. Let’s be sullen and suspicious in case the Native Blankets don’t understand out of their project. I made a pundit of a wife and planted myself a squaw with the Lordy they usually feed me. By golly, the sales come in! Age transpires like the coffee in my salesman’s cap. I wish I could make you realise the length of my tongue via the policing of wild geese in the East End. This is the place to be a door with a confederate flag for a knob. It is damning to think of the white girl’s scar.

            The rocks are peeling off their ashes and Martin has had a hand in the proceedings. Something happens to straighten the mind for the herd, something that comes up on foot and loudly so. They make bullshit excuses and exclude my principality with tan hide commandeering. Nothing but ice water up ahead so keep those knees high and sarcastic. I have smoke that’s off limits to the high of machination going wrong several times over. I am the sort of mandate crush that climbs out of the grimy works and looks hard over his shoulder for men with napkins tucked horrifically into their lapels. I could march it off or mark it often or maybe mash my mush into miniscule mink patterns but I have absolutely no plans to call you sir ahead of the holes. Could you stand up, up, up with a shock? And casually? You might aid and abet the Travelling Author and his Sunny Dearest Neil. He seems a segmented individual, ripe for the status of old maid despite his agency and sincerity. Ain’t no place I’d rather be than the prick’s skipping front teeth, the one who moves in on lonely women in the sunset. He has a guitar and working lady emotions and everything. He may even be a mole but medical science has yet to buy that drink for itself. I highly anticipate the rocking chair suicide you’ll organise for him. Recall: there is always a price.

Nevertheless the growing relevance of sombrero salutes keeps causing me to lose at dandy games of die. Not only that, I end up with five o'clock shadow and bazookas behind the ears. The sound of my hooves on the sand will make you think of eye-watering unity. Cats too.

13/08/2013 - SO MOTE IT BIANCA

So mote it Bianca and droves of homeless hobo wonderments may come flooding out of the nether regions and I shall not mention the patricians fax-based methods of dealing with microbiology. Mother told me all about the cartoons, shat upon a waking person and then dodged off out of a window in the hopes that she might recollect the frame and make a tasteful diagram depicting what might have been seen through it at one time. It’s an activity that makes me want to chase up some of us, the rest of us if not all of us or rather the whole team but then I am having an out of body experience and its pretty rad. I could be mistaken but how did we go from A to B without sliding into G for a base or two? Wheel it in, boys, wheel it in. The judges and their pet referees are having none of it and you know what they’ll be like next time we come by this region. Going forward burstscannonsout and makes me slur in hypotriffic ways, causing trips of the tonguegarglinglifewaterontherocks. It makes me sloppy to think that such words are going by unnoticed and unscathed by the police force: where is the automaton strength? I’m sure the comic book writers and their pet scribblers did something, pulled a valve or something to make things run smoother and tidier. I’m only one person.

 

            So mote it Bianca or, as they call it in the Southern states, a winning formula going off to pick up a few pails of narked off water. You can tell that the sloshing is pissed sloshing because of all the ripples and shit. It smacks of gay licensing charges and, being a big old homophobe, I’ll keep my keys just to the right side for the duration of this next dude’s speech. I’ve heard it was written by HeWhoWhatsWithSalamanders, a notorious one for wearing skullcaps, a bloke with sympathies. Who would rather be dumb in this climate? The hat-wearing population is going the way of the comic book artist, revolving around its own central locus in abject despair and fancy glass-blowing. The gays are organising a protest against the mistreatment of vowels, their first target shall be the subordinate clauses. News broadcasters say it won’t be pretty but what do they know? Their muscles glisten and yet their pectorals are never visible. It’s clearing up nicely out there now so at least we can leave the poisons behind and give ourselves a well-deserved chuckle at the expense of the firemen and all their cookie deprecations. It’s so sad that some of the so few go out and actually choose to become a game developer named MasterSaucerGunFloatingPastTheWindow but alas we cannot change the garrison into a frozen astronaut. He has his breath and won’t let go of the implied gender until you take it from him forcibly. If we take it forcibly he will never talk to us again. Your fault, I think.

12/09/2013 - IT CLEANSES

                It cleanses the escort of the media as he fires up the spaceship and lets loose the tethers of terror. The sight makes you founder, flounder and eat a quarter-pounder. What they have in mind is a blasphemous currency that snaps to the touch and kills with deadly accuracy. It's kind of hard to aim for his knotted planes. Why has he been here for three days, contemplating his falconry epistemology? Is his mind still set on leaving the children behind in the mire? To their fate or someone else's? They can only imagine whilst on their archaeological digs as their hands deftly grace the trowels.

            Sometimes you can find the water nymphs working down the bog cleaners, waiting to see if their mystery might be overturned or their songs updated and improved by seamstress quavers but that's really not going to happen. The warships are coming home and the permanency has been weathered by quid pro quo and all its little chocolate grass friends. In the space of this shed, they conspired to ruin the fresh food by turning it all into the vessel for a rampant and indigenous watchmaker ghost. You could fit the fucker in a thimble if your cortex was milder and perhaps rarer. Then again, that would require effort and a few extra paces on unsalted sand. The pillars just rise like smoke on a daffodils webbing, see them curtsey to the Cyclops and become components of a political constituent who lost his movie rights to a diet plan.

            These Europeans work far too hard for their own good. Erasmus is able to confirm that they will burn finger holes in their exhaust pipes and be forced to plug them using the bony fingers of delicate children. This requires husbandry of a different order, one that is paramount to train travel and most of its idiosyncratic preliminaries. So what can you tell them about it? What can't you define? Looking specifically and without judgement will make a younger skeleton of the left side of your aura which would indicate that you haven't watered your plants today let alone filled up all of your pencil pots with cue tips and acute causes of death. The Woman in the Caribbean Circle has plans for you, she wants to pay you to be her manicurist on weekdays when her usual beautician is away reading textbooks to Chilean apologists. The nouns are always difficult for her to pronounce so she really would appreciate any opportunity to lose some excess knowledge and focus more wholeheartedly on that particular task. She's plastered it on most wanted posters in the hamlet across the way in case you forget and should douse the shopping bags for any reason. Keep your tongue at the level of your ears though because the adhesive used on those posters are usually poisonous to smarmy gits and their artist friends. You might choke on your own starry-eyed inhibition. Erasmus' research suggests that young men are undoubtedly heavy when alone.

11/09/2013 - ADDENDUM

                Addendum. How do you say addendum? How do you say addendum to a little old lady who has keeled over on her side right in the middle of a bus lane? Do you say addendum at all? Has she done anything to deserve it? Does she deserve something else? A knighthood perhaps? Should we pick her up on our ameliorative shoulders and shimmy her to a star-studded audition? Might she sink or swim? Might she have need for any more legal advice? Should she seek out an independent party to mediate? Should she bring the cake decorations? I think she might be a Georgian.

                The tarmac has its own story to tell. It doesn't want to be here anymore, it has so many things on its mind. It keeps telling me:

 

Despite being a duly-noted pen top, I have done very little to contribute to the stymie storm. I've always been a derring-do, derring-do, gung-ho, gung-ho betrothal to a misty mastiff. I have always been its bitch, sneaking up its tail whenever the big black man comes to take us to the park. I so wish I could belong anywhere else but then my earrings are falling off and I'm in the process of sullying the reputation of this fine musician to the side of our sidelines. It hits you to see such a sharp thing go to waste, such a shifty element that transposes itself with the cold consistency of retractable steel. I am a slut to action, a trampoline borrowing its shtick from a loose trombone, fitting its nozzle around the indelicate neighbourhood like so much cock. I am cheap tarmac, a bit of grey that is just a bit of grey. I could be a great composer, I have the ridiculous posture ready and at my disposal. They told me that's all it takes to be a foothold, a scratch on the page of spiralling leather bound. I'm practically careening practicality.

 

                It is at this point that the rest of the eyewitnesses start to jog off in the hopes that their new exercise regime might bring them into a dizzying state of enlightenment. If only the world could remind them that this is East Texas and we already do that sort of shit anyway, easy as rolling bucks off a black Buick.

                No-one knows where to see the drunk people peep show but that's where the littlest of the witnesses comes in, this tiny champ knows where one can see some real dirty Elephantitis. Be careful though, the victims usually carry guns in there and not cuddly ones either. The bullets go in nice and easy and come out rough and slow. The cordite foists itself on the placidity of the plastic underbelly of the illegal neighbourhood.

                Heretofore. The world is heretofore. The populace could be heretofore. Should anyone mention the populace while heretofore is yet to be done? Can heretofore be done? Can heretofore even be heard by human-sized ears? Is heretofore a number sequence? Are we suddenly spies now?

10/09/2013 - ASSORTMENT HAPPENS

                Assortment happens on this side of the district. It is usually followed by assignment and allocation and even a bit of Baked Alaska. And yet soulful eagles rarely leave this aspect of the land, they don't consider the merits of finding their mead elsewhere and attaching their fortunes accordingly for future business ventures. It drives the mind of even the simplified man to cut deep on practised politics and waitress  trespassing. At least the fiction is good, the fiction is reliable on this side of the tracks. It doesn't taste of much then you wouldn't expect it to with how much Austrian hair they put into the citizen broth.

                This street is filled with miniscule quadrupeds, brandishing knives in torrid stockings. See how they mistreat the poor buffoon with his $80 worth of stationary. Silly man, that's the wrong currency in these parts. The stairwell home would have been a tyranny for him but now he's got no chance of getting back into the white silk pocket of his house in only three or four partially broken pieces. He has fleas in his sleeve so they might help him ward off the thuggish scuttle creatures. Then again who would pay to see that? I know I wouldn't, says a lady in her own bargain bin. People don't listen to her because she dares to crossbreed exposition with social commentary. It's said she even has three celluloid posters which she bought one hazy flashback in Ireland. She carries herself like one who comes from thereabouts.

                The pirates are coming to repossess the colour television set of almost every couple within the district. It's a hate crime and no-one can understand what kind of rise the guy with only a cutlass and a few rope burns gets out of all this. It's practically perversion of the ancient comedy act of bailiff and desperate drunk. He doesn't play in either role, he prefers to be the bird that lands between the two sets of teeth. His chuckle can curdle transatlantic orders on arrival.

                Neil has awoken to blow the cretins away with his flickering knuckles. He's been waiting on the surgery now for magenta hours now and Mr Thank isn't going to cough up, not while he still has it so good. Neil can usually be seen getting the MRI machine to work but he jumps at opportunities like these to offload his depressive fury on something hook-handed. Watch him duck and dive and jab and jive and do everything in his powers to be anything but a 23rd Century drug dealer, splitting sticks and baggies on the street for a flimsy sum. His wife has dragged him out of it but goodness knows where she has gone now, a right and holy place we hope. She could even become a mayoral candidate if she ever saw the need but I doubt she will considering her innate need to lose her skin in Borneo. The property ladder has nothing to say about this, it's just a tragedy.

09/09/2013 - THE ISLE, THE PLAZA

the isle, the plaza, the destructive tendency, the general property damage, the voluminous poetry written about said damage, the whistles orchestrated around such poetry, the demonstration of poetry whistles on the street, the reclamation of poetry whistles into popular culture, the demonstration of how poetry whistle culture can be channelled into backwater politics, the backwater politicians whistling the demise of their parties, the backwater politicians whistling the demise of their careers, the desperate attempt at citing original poetry in order to save some element of the decaying party, the hours spent caking plaster onto the rotting bones of the inherent policies, the alteration of the chemical compound of the plaster in order to make it more resistant to rebellious vaginal discharges, the countrywide rejection of women who would discharge such things, the women being fed into execution camps for little more than this disgusting kneejerk behaviour, the lack of women to impregnate, the faltering of the species, the mannish world going down on itself, the world trying desperately to sprout female alternatives before homosexuality becomes court-ordered, the appeal to test new theories in playing god, the complex that comes with finding that god isn't really anything more than a man with the right tools, the tools becoming weapons, the weapons becoming propaganda, the propaganda becoming threats, the threats being melted in fat fryers, the fish and chip shops creating massive eruptions in the tectonic plates, the shifting of continents, the drift towards deeper water, the inevitable submergence halfway into soggy conditions, the sogginess turning to soppiness, the men turning into more romantic, sensitive versions of themselves, the remaining god technology turning them into female versions of themselves, the female versions shattering the remaining technology with vaginal discharges, the righteous uprising, the usurper's rage, the pretenders to the queen's genitalia, the war of the sexes, the battle to end genitalia, the building of hope verandas, the decimation of said verandas, the final act of gender equality slipping on its own loving juices, the desperate search for mops to clean the juices up, the discovery of divine tapestries long since forgotten, the messages on those tapestries, the stains covering those messages, the inspiration drawn from those stains, the return of loving juices, the forgiveness shared all round, the reestablishment of man and womankind, the grand resetting, the brickwork becomes important again, the imaginative expansions of rubble and other remains, the plaza, the isle again

                And the mercy wasn't ever good enough. And the childishness wasn't nearly accurate enough to meet our expectations. And the books would tumble off the shelves or at least they used to until you neatened up the bow and shined the black man's dome. It didn't hurt him but I'm pretty such it hurt you. And the populace piped down for the adjutant to make his final appraisal and he wasn't kind. And he said so many things about your cartridges and your unethical methods and your dodgy attitude to police situations. And you dried up deftly in your sleep.

08/09/2013 - READERS BEWARE!

Readers Beware! The long blonde tigress is out for her bi-weekly tarot walkabout and has demanded that I, the Guffaw, forewarn you in her place. When she returns she will bring a temper tantrum so large that it will ache the fluff inside your pockets and even twirl your pubic hair into vibrant depictions of skeletal excretions. It’s an imaginative process that could only have been made by a Scotsman carrying around his shell collection on his person. The tigress has a saleable conquest to keep you dizzy while she is out to lunch on fishy politician dinners. It is as simple as this: Constantinople on heat.

Now I do not know what she means by this but I’m guessing it is a puzzle tailor made for you. You look about the right height for Constantinople, most ancient cities in fact, so I’ll just assume the tigress knows what she is doing. It seems to me that she wants you to mate with the brickwork and the history embedded within it until you produce some kind of archaic newborn quiz of the century. Here is a scarf that you might need, it loops through the front near the fronds. I’m pleased it actually fits you, so many tape recorders have belched contrasting estimations of your neck size but now I know the truth. You are a bit of a heavy-set humanoid, aren’t you?

Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound like heckling. Being the latest Guffaw in a globe-spanning family of abstract belly laughs, I can’t help but seem amused. Seriousness is an affliction I come down with every winter break so it might be worth you getting an honest opinion then. I’ll even eat bacon butties. If I’m anything, I’m an inconsistent vegan with delusions of vampirism. Don’t believe what they say of me on the internet, I can’t overcome life’s joviality, I can’t actually help you to venture cyber exposition in frivolous directions. I’m just the soul of a moment that nobody can suppress, not even your mother’s father’s sister.

And hear this! The tigress has said some nasty things about my sexual persuasion, claiming I’m some sort of voyeur. In this day and age! Really! As soon as I see hanky-panky it is my natural tendency to spank myself until blind. The tigress is just jealous of my girth, my mirth and most of all my glamour. She couldn’t hold down a carpet sander if she tried, her claws run so deep. In the meantime, let’s leave all that under our collective hats, the ones with the really wide brims.

It’s such a sorry shift of time that leads me to casting you off into the unknown for your grand epitaph, I mean your grand mission. The starry crossing is headed south of the portrait so you’ll have to do most of the footwork yourself. I’m sorry but I’m fading away, paring down into a whistle. I am the Guffaw, Dear Readers, and please don’t forget it anymore.

07/09/2013 - SUDDENLY, SHORTLY

                Suddenly, shortly wasn't good enough to hear. Following that, meanwhile was having a lover's tiff with camomile tea, spitting faces out onto platypus galaxies. It'll hurt a bit more as soon as the gigantism clashes with the dwarfism and produces a baby detective in the resounding penile lockage. Some would say that such a sight defies all explanation of trepans, togas and fall swoops but then I am a realist and would tuck those weird little possibilities into the fingers of kid gloves. There is, of course, enough room: no need to strut around like that with your hazmat suit riding up in the crotch.

            These dangerous ideas (Exhibit A, 2 and +) are not even the property of chest infections on the beach. The law of the towel on the deck chair has long since danced off into its own fame and fortune. In the meantime other laws will have to pick up the slack and do the best they can to get this hovercraft of patriotism up into the stratosphere. That's no mean feat I can tell you though the toes might have something venomous to say to you. My advice is to just ignore them, fashion your own goblin wood.

            I've never seen moves like that. Do what you just did again while the tent flap is still open and slapping the chins of capuchins. I'll see if I can patent it and get you a gig on the SS West End. You play guitar too? Very nice. Do you know of the Spiders from the Van personally or will I need to introduce you? Knowing the Cat of Snowdon certainly won't help endear them to you and your jive talking. It's time to take it too far to see if we can actually suck up into the mind of the Leper Gestation. It might take a few days of pure matter transference but this I can promise: no-one will ever need to join your rival choir. It's what's left that counts.

            Goodness! Have you seen the sanity on her? Over there, the lass in the frills stood beside the dead Navy Seal. Yes, he is quite clearly dead, smells like the deed was done by the Sunset slamming into the dust of his well-worn boots. I'll fill you with gin and you'll see my point of view, with all the little twinkly lights and fancy gizmos. Take for instance, is that cage empty? No, it isn't. It's crammed full of saviours who have tigers in crude headlocks. It's a very oily sight, soaked in its own forgiveness and self-assurance. Trust me, you'll see it soon enough and you'll never want to go back to the chorus. It takes will, it tasks the verisimilitude or rather taxes it sufficiently until it becomes a half-truth encased in a loaded dice. I'll catch her yet, the lass in the frills, I'll make her rip gold and fly with fantasia. All it takes is a little piece of shrapnel and all will be well.

06/09/2013 - NAUGHT BUT ONE

            Naught but one. One bit nought. The binary won with only naughty logic. Meanwhile the silken truncheon ploughed down into the rest of the line of calculation, making a smash out of quantities that defy even alien comprehension. While the cannons pop caps, it's best to stay within your calculators, tucked away behind the solar panel. The binary disillusionment has caused the Malignant Ear Muffs to descend upon our unholy city. It is as if Sodom had gaseous wheels and ounces of pencil case juice! It makes for a fiery tsunami, a disquieting display of shagged-out window panes getting drunk on their own fastidious multiplications.

            The portraits are gaining pigtails, mono brows and various GET OUT CLAUSES involving guns of love. Show me your hand and I'll say no to how you choose to dismember it. The electric current does not make for exasperated twinkle sounds between bites. It defecates feelings all over the feathery calendar prices. It pounds itself into the very fibres of nebulous expulsions of wind. To move is to gain on the Gorgon and the Gorgon is the enemy of numerical order. Never trust a woman with snakes for hair to make spuds of your hypotenuse problems. The books will be next, which is to say they will turn green and develop the consistency of a flagellated placenta. It's sickening but that's what happens when the toilet seat is left up. Global talent is rather intolerant of encrypted crutches bobbing up and down in toilet water. Either way it just corresponds to good policy and perhaps practice.

            The latter half of the grand equation is shuddering in a far off corner in the United Nations Headquarters. They are liable for witness protection but peacekeeping is letting them sleep it off first or whatever the equivalent is for squiggly values. Meanwhile the committee is reviewing its stock in children's literature, seeing if buying a light grey suit for all the members would be totally out of the question. My suggestion is to start and stop and grind down the soap opera partridge for better effect. More can always be done, that's a family motto. Not my family motto but it belongs to a better man than I. That's right, I said a man when I meant a woman. Duh.

            There is talk of sending the grand equation off to Hertfordshire so that it can be mollycoddled by the superintendent there, his cuddles have been known to indicate fabulous revelations in wayward polygons. Either way it's worth the compact investigation, worth going online and seeking out the lifestyle of a drunk American actor forced to sing lullabies for the latest gadgetry. The octagon is closing for a while to establish reinforcement and put them to appropriate use. It'll be an occasion, the final stand between the grand equation and all of its fallacies. Who will draw first? Who will win the self-portrait competition? My money's on the dung beetle but then I always back the outsider. It usually lives up to expectation.