02/09/2013 - VISUALLY PERCEPTIBLE

Visually perceptible to see the watching. Long stretches. Long slimy stretches of blowing cheek cracks. Lost turbo, so swapping to retro for a few. Salmon skin drug reference on a platter of humane rice. Inhumane graphic animations dawdle about the Big England Dream Invocation. Something in the front of the bedroom that slaps integral parts onto yurts filled with creamy fisherman. Asking hard-ons to become mites for a few seconds while this area passes into night. Accepting the whole world. Designing a featurette to spectacular specification. Ghastly time-keeping. Cold front pockets that chant their own sepulchre. Making boom-boom in the cleverly adapted lounge space. So the national tea elocution goes as it goes. Such a direct direction of the hero with a bomb between civilian butt cheeks. Love goes off for a quiet fag and a philosophise. Love makes boom-boom out of boohoo. Ostrich au pair. Swastika patent. Hands flying up to say the bedroom talk. Knees cruising past to blaze a row or two. A row for two along a pleasant magazine cartridge. Seeing eye dog with pricked up ears. Asinine turns silly into stupid into plain unintelligent. Erasure. Flasks of potions, most of them violet. Erasure. Clandestine applications for the self-determination society of Political Militia America from the Underwhelmed Basement. At least the blowjobs keep on coming. Chaps make the blacklists. As the day glows go home for post and packaging. Adequacy trumps erasure. Especially the children, don't pass them up for television whilst legs are still applicable. A space on the form is just down here. Can't be far now from home, can't be more than a fence over. It runs all the runny around and amid. Lecterns make for a bit of a climb, a tad of a clamber but just a tad.  Recognising the difference of staff from pointy stick. Roughly on erasure. Mossy twelve. Thunder gone and took it back from under the done rotten things. It'll belch. It'll belong quite wisely. Tell a friend to make a blog from scratch and sniff artwork, as premiered by salivating hounds. Straw eyesight. Glandular fever atop a forty foot wall with an eyestalk sticking out from the end of the bushy tail. As was the promise in the promised land, as was the sacred violation of munching. Brands may change but red hair doesn't. The supermarkets have it in robin's egg blue or bill envelope brown. The webpage. The erasure of said webpage. The line of unemployment winding around crisscross corridors. No vacant grins, just galvanised trades and dead booklets. The Lazarus sharpener blinks and binds and shoots a load into the pyjama party of the garden's solid soluble soul. Well wishers come to telephone the crown jewels ahead of tambourine time. The levels of malware. The scatological scanning of verse. Isn't quite brash enough. Isn't nearly enough ballsy for most operant networks. So sordid. So kickable. A white sky lays down to kneel down to vent and ventilate. The senses converge, comply, emerge. Simon doesn't say.