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.