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.