02/10/2013-03/10/2013 - HA, HA!

Ha, ha! Yes I wish I was an innuendo aficionado but I’m too busy flicking the bean with a Minotaur to pay any mind, notice or heed. These things are scatter shod malignant tobacco on the viral lips of my disheartening light. I’m a busy woman which means exactly what it means, that I can say I am a busy woman and you just take it for face value and not be waspish about it. Don’t you see the suit? The juke? The plantation scope? I’m ready to knock out all who were concerned and have stopped due to laxative problems. I’m coming for you too, The Likes of Which, you make everyone curl their quilts into colourful meridians. I have my orders and my orders come from the little notes that I embed within the fabric of my socks. I don’t use wool; I use fabric because who wants to be righteous in this day and age?

Ho, ho! You see this fine knight grasping at his manhood with spasmodic grease, slapping his knuckles against the colonic cod between his trouser areas. He’s out to mount a campaign to fuck my behind out from under me. Little does he know that I have all kinds of warrants out and ready to slap him with, most of which are entropy-powered. Theymakemesmokeasnailwithpartisanartistry but iamnotaliarorathieforacowcalf. This is exactly where I get my idea, from the drifting droplets of dislodged rainy days. Damn. And not just damn, damn the damnable who damn the damnable while damning the damnation with more damnation that is in fact a faux version of the very same damnation. The coda lives on in the crushed velvet of Winter Season Alpha. My agents are armed and charged and charmed and no amount of lady legs will enrapture them whilst their minds are glued to this job. I can trust these men because they are simple folk with bodies that actually fit them without inadequacy. Hurumph.

Hee hee! I’m going along with this entire movie scene in order to please the lady with the scratchy crotch. She’s a maestro with a swampy vagina so I maintain a harmonic distance whilst she figures out what she wants and what their place in the world would be if we actually ever considered them with their erroneous declarations. My mind melts and calms the gross into a more bankable episode of grafter television: watch the skin go from black to hirsute within a leitmotif. The audience is definitely going to notice that so you stop blowing your nose and do something with that ray gun of yours. I’ll wrench it from your twinkly little fingers and see how the ancient monks deal with it, I’m sure that they have ways to keep their hands full for days as they burn in their own sick pen. It’s getting to be well, the wheels starting at it first. We can send Sister Maestro to sit with me awhile. I’m pondering the gothic architecture. It irks me.

And then I’ll lie about it afterwards in order to charter a profit margin with what little tools I have at my disposal. My kid died leaving behind a shred of moonstone in his upper pocket, he should have used it to reapply his loose teeth into his permanently tilting head. His mind is evil and intense so that is why you are to be perfectly nice to him, he has a tantrum schedule that works away round the clock. I might just blow up to the northeast, that might see me alone at last. The torso is displaced but the hindrance remains as always, making me round up the usual cowboys with my Got to Move speech and all of its constituent tapes. You can play it on your debit card as the television box set starts to make information everlasting, I knew he wasn’t corrupt from the start, he is the one man I might have crumpets and a snog with. He left me in a sleeper hold at our last bar mitzvah and wouldn’t feed me key out of my most precious flask. That was a monster piece but I didn’t really look at the mirror and see him down to the wrinkled resolution.

  What to do with five minutes and a foreclosure? This, for one thing. That, for another. And police custody for the third and biggest hitter in all Northern states: The Kangaroo. He’s got the stance of Alison and the patience of a Catholic on crack. She’s sobering up though and nicely too depending on how you pump her stomach on Thursdays. Somehow she is a fruitful vagina that talks at hairy halitosis seconds. They might argue that it is ecumenical but the relationships will be determined and dissolved forthwith. I have options for you whilst you wait for your own dissolution. Not the right shoes, never the right pants. Delicacies are debris and a faction of pigeon wastage. What scares you most about the island? Beside its bare external detection, it is back again with a slew of women with guys and deaths are still yet to be heard and no more candidates. Somethingsarejustcoldcaughtmerightbetweentheshadow and the question mark. It seems to signify a hill up that way, a leg up for feminist histrionics and obstetrics. Oh yes, the tea is just right. I’ll just be unbearable for half a second. I remember all the fall carpenters. The man says it’s good to see her and decides to leave the baby to its sister who can’t even run a bath properly when the puffs drag by, what’s really wrong with that outcome?

If we could talk then maybe the traffic lights might evolve into low-flying political figureheads. It would be the dream of many meat cleaver fanatics to see this outcome but I see you still have a thing for a lady with just four walks to her name. It’s worth taking to the witch just for the headaches and multiplying holes. But nah.