19/10/2013 - WHARF SURFACE MEMORY

            Wharf surface memory. It needs cleaning. It needs hours of quintessential explanation and deliberation over various international incidents that require guest thinkers just to float up outside of the realms of blah-de-blah balloon contemplation. The time has come to talk of late hours and cinder pots that whir in televised opinion articles whilst drinking the last of the supposedly summer beverage, the one that's an off-colour red to calcium deficiency victims. It grates on the nerves. It holds me in my dinner jacket and tells me all the wonderful things Cinderella managed in the Winter Gardens in spite of her narcoleptic half-sister weighing her down. The don devises such privileges of information and can offer a guided tour around such hotspots of interest although his prices do tend to bruise like cups of tea on a fine diner's palette. It trips the tongue and rolls out the rug that lies frozen underneath, rolled up into an avid discussion over copycat pedantry. The man with buns for a head once was Neil but he's since been transformed into a compressed thing with cultures for eyes and a batty hairdo that derelicts most airships at the mere sight of it in areola codes. The temptation to call in is probably killing him.

            But calling in is not quite the same as calling it in, not quite the same at all, in fact the eye can also be the storm itself only much tighter and swept up by loose bands of a cloak made of its substance. It fixes on the grey matter and fifty other balls of the lingo that don't trip or yearn for something external to the natural born locus. That was the Captain speaking just then, just behind all the other stuff I said, and he wants to prove to you that you are in fact a lizard in a convincing man suit. He can see your zipper but then we can all see your zipper so is it really a zipper? You seem far too clever to have it out and flaunted so blatantly. The rest of your outfit is like horse spurs and lasting tributes tacked onto the face-to-face encounters that are commonly associated to wedded bliss. You have the devil's eyebrow, all lofty and malignant in spite of itself. This very cry of pain could be your buckteeth growing out, a trick commonly taught to students of the amicable craft. Naming who exactly will do you no good but its always nice to chat and learn something the enemy isn't quite so sure of and wouldn't mind working out with a piece of paper and a pen.

            But you left the girl and that's what has set everybody on edge. This is it: dots you popped in a map that you left behind just to prove the rest of the thinking world that you had not caved into materialistic expressionism. Few would agree that you are in fact Cinderella, some ascribe you to Cerberus for thorough keeping.