12/12/2013 - THEIR TAPESTRY

                Their tapestry, their length of fabric, it is their triumph of stitching and knot-loosening. They have it all, these people. They have never been pupils to anyone in anyway, they incur privacy just by staring at it and maybe likening it to some humorous remarked based on a slow-hitting film. They have round bellies and party themes that trundle along with Hispanic mileage, going right through, striking right through the middle. They have frankfurters, the rights and deeds to each and every one of that particular brand of sausage as well as a few average meat products on top. They are calling the police right now because they can read your thoughts and don't really like where its heading. They're branch of police, is a special branch of police that shelters swimwear catalogue models and performs adequate root canals. They write books that go on for decadence, asking statements and posing figures of speech to plucky philanthropists who spend most of their afternoons eating in a foreign person's wardrobe. They act all matey at times when it isn't really deemed as being necessary, let alone amusing.  As soon as you've bent over, they're net profit has increased and bounded over your moony back all the way to Idaho. They strangle other people's stature until blue is the only colour that they are capable of running. It's like a negative.

                Their tapestry is a plot device employed to make misnomers out of everyone involved, to slam an oxygen helmet or bell around their head and shuck their lower regions without any relation to corn. They are far from pusillanimous, they are verging on creepy hipster territory. They are third in line to the throne, well most of them as far as we can tell. They frame the outlines of children's eyeballs in a last ditch attempt to reconfigure reality despite all the modern scientific minds telling them that it cannot be done due to impossibility and stupidity. They are rich like mint cakes except everybody wants a piece and the shovel's been rummaged through mud and ring dust. They are at your place right now, trying to exfoliate the ex-patriot you keep in your middle room, the one that all the schoolgirls talk about with their hairstyles in a tizzy. They know each of these girls by name but will not inform their mothers who are constantly forgetting in favour of magazines about selling out in the condo market. They dart among the raindrops and scoop up the leftover pairs of sexy sex pants. They only do this because your mother is watching and vaguely impressionable.

                Their tapestry is locked in a safe at the edge of a pile of discarded ballads committed to rice paper. They are coming down the staircase right now and are bound to see you sniffing about among their golden-haired mongoose tail collection. They will be miffed about this. They will doubtlessly call their police and instil a ruckus. We'll call our faces in the military.