15/10/2013 - WHEELIE TROPES

Wheelie tropes made the black cargo gold with the flick of a flicker of a sleight of hand in a lonely pocket. It glimmered past the lazy bean fields and turned its attentions onto womankind with a kink in both its heart and belly. These knots made for sick, heavy breath and flaming boozers in twilight damask. Residual rights activists came out in full force, they came out with extra full force in case the fires were bonny and blithe. It's a kid's round full of malware, born of triumphant miles and trumpet calls in star prize preening. To pass the baby is to slide a buck into the contextual hand of chartered accountancy. It jet, jet, jettisons the warm lumps of the marked news, carefully avoiding the bits made of macarooni and pure typhoid.

            It cries Fahrenheit, Celsius but neither at the same time, not on the dales. To do so would go unrequited like the American and the Scotsman who tried to emulate the Irish brother they so frequently bashed for his good for nothing stereotypes. They never realised he threw himself into a pregnant woman's womb in order to resurrect an order from the colonel, the one he never got round to hearing properly and throughout. He was making tracks towards the dictionary definition, sowing seeds and sprouts of felony all around his tabernacle feet as he went along. The jigs started to play but then the party was over and the noose was starting the painful process of turning into a comely Sheila. They say it can only commemorate his sadness but that would require sorting out the fluffy bits first, the nicks and the punch.

 

 

 

 

 

            Swathe said - we're the only ones you had between the wall and the skirting board. Mastery replied - you did quite well, quite well with your jobless Deuteronomy scripture. Swathe said to him - so you're on his side now? I'll bet you were on his slight side all along, weren't you? Mastery snapped - oh shut up while I get the fire started. Swathe muttered - I was only saying. Mastery said - don't speak, it's far too easily done for the likes of you. Swathe sat in silence and fondled his navel like an hour glass or an upturned swan. Mastery designed a brand of liqueur that would make anyone late for their bad appointments guaranteed. No satisfaction though.

            The woman in the corner has trouble sleeping. She feels observed and often gluts herself on the realisation that she must leave for some undisclosed farm somewhere to mark up carrots for the sake of courage whilst the infection and its layer cake structure spread out across the badlands. This case is a yes without tidy relevance, an affirmative that takes so long you might not even realise that the answer is coming with the intention of pounding you into bone idle sausage meat paste. The rectory provides solace to the bleak and underlay but opens its back doors to everyone.