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.