31/01/2014 - REAL RUBBLE FIXES BOXES

Real rubble fixes boxes full of defibrillators and makes sure that there are no people around you to speculate or eat spiders distastefully. Let the Italians at the heck and the machines are done for the day at the bakery of coconuts. Going down like a baby is like returning to Round 1 with a wicked case of the asterisk. This is the last hazard and worth the yogurt kill. Why not hop around?

            When you run you get to a certain point where you shake and point and launch yourself into a Liverpool pool filled with angry kittens at dishy reservations. This is jousting. Press A. Go boom and you'll fuck up ahead of the pretty wiggle of a sign. You have to hold on for half a prescient inkwell, do the thing, don the mask and stop being so lucky with the narwhals. There isn't enough time to be a Tuscan Adaptor, you'll have to live within your means in the vat of beans. Omens at the tips of your toes are tough to beat and so say all of us, we who run in the air with our jowls preventing the inclusion of phone numbers. The speed is coming on, coming along with BAM.

            You have superb balance and a snap to die for, the kind of dying you'd only see at the finest ballets in the grimmest backyards. Licking the rolling of a ball pays off ultimately. We have two points to go and the fibreglass will stick to your residential fantasy nerd. You're blue philosophy, back where you started, making a difference and being as kinetic as a golf ball can be. The two of the twins and the three of the beret-wearing jerks will wait out the hula storm with cranky individuals that chase their own grandchildren in spurts of future balance.

            -LEGS, TORSOS, HEAD, PRISONERS, LEMURS, BRAVE HEARTS, GRBABING THEM UP, DOING IT FOR THE ROBOT ARMY, GRABBING THE WIRING, SNAPPING THE WIRING, LAYING THE WIRING OUT ON THE PARTY MAT, ROLLING IT UP, STINKING THE PLACE OUT, LIVING AGAIN WITH A FAT FUCK FOR A BIRD, DYING AGAIN-

            Well the scientists were the twist the whole time and captains ride the hellish landscpae with flabby irises and a bawling man in a suit jacket. Look at him swim! He occupies the drive with the puddles that brown around him, floating upward in gaseous bubbles with excited bubbles packed up inside. Has someone read a holy book yet? Billy the Lopsided has, he did it a year ago.

            The best logic has been put down with a lethal injection and the cumulative total has been shot in the face with its own problematic rifle. DO YOU SEE THE EVENING DO? DID YOU SEE THE EVENING DO? I must have mentioned this before in yellow text. The first thing said was adorable and the second thing was Venusian. Without the letter varnish, the meanings drop like incomplete rafts on incomplete water. They're all straight out of Cuba.

30/01/2014 - ANOTHER DROMEDARY FIASCO

            Another dromedary fiasco, another case of beers being set alight and turned to kindling, another poet trying to reclaim his sense of sensibility for the next grand composition. Let us return to the encampment and forget that we've noticed the lace being confiscated by the velocity multiplied. Let me give yon one good reason for hankering after hundred: she let the rascal have it with invisible tenacity. The taps are running and hunting a bunting with altercations for seventeen year olds, most seventeen year olds with sick breath in their domino masks and their malting after quantum surveying. Maggots are for Jared, Jared paid up front for them and has lived down at the docks for most of his life and he would thank us to thank him for all the times he's never met us. Our inventions revolutionise those around him but the poet just sulks whenever he sees Jared and demands to hear voices from other people issuing forth from his beachside mix. This is an emergency for haemorrhaging, a caricature of the emperor covered in scarlet and brown crusty bits that just jump out at you from the canvas. It's all really rather sturdy. I believe in you all, your powers of historic magnetism and self-aggrandising.

            The little boy's noise is taunting over the years, has been taunting over the years and will never stop until you just walk it off and pay him another day for the sunflowers he gives you right at that very moment. There's no easy way of cuckolding a gentleman of so little a stature but, provided you keep a little note in your stockings, you should be able to get away with it like a minstrel on a career high. The damned fishing, the days spent digging around in the ocean for vast opportunity and buyer bewares. There's a first time for everything including soul chips and the anvils on which they are forged by blind chavs. Bonfires in their eyes, racism in their digestive tract, so many bodily functions that just keep returning and giving the impression that they are busy only more exaggerated than it really needs to be in order to be taken onboard effectively. Serious fat men are always serenading the pub glass and possession remains a fraction of the law but not a tropical island.

            All we can do, all that is our duty is to wound grey remote controls and spell out the bings and the bongs from the smart suits and altercations that bury the cheesy ones with sexy sex habits. Give us a shout, give us a shout, give us a simple shell of a shout and the demographic will pay you in oodles for your troubles. This lot are the other ones and taming is not quite the bug in the lunacy that we hardened it to be. It's all gluten-free treasure, a daily reminder of liking bad ideas for chainsaw losers. The man is a child only as far as his beef will allow him.

29/01/2014 - THE LENGTH AROUND THE BREAKFAST TABLE

The length around the breakfast table seems to be adjusting well. Wasn’t he driving? ThanK God. Thank God for his Musculature. We have always had brunch and it’s good to see you and to let you drop by. Drop off the bull’s eye from time to time and I’ll work for everything like clockwork and a painted tie. The busy bee is sorry for saying that you wouldn’t fit an electorate candidate. Trying is good to have you back. The issue is all the same. You saved the father and boy.

I’m sorry but we can’t go back to the police sirens until the rocky atmosphere has been transcendental and really dumb. You can’t stay in there forever and you’re not helping the alien to shake the car with maternal hemp. Adoption is a family of wouldn’t and won’t and won’t you just say please and have done with it so the cheerleader can go back to being a profiterole for hire? Wait a second and you’ll be an island, you will fit the getaway driver and his knowledge of hard drives and software and hellish spikes underneath computer bnaks. Check this out and the brunette cop might tie-dye the door and she might incise the washing line and she might check for radiation poisoning with the tip of her thumb and little botany smoking.

You have such a chinned family. Friendly mobsters throw mobs and mugs and tatty diamonds into green and gracious mental handicaps. I quit my convincing clinic job just to be a woman of leisure or a man with a long white knee to mess up accordingly. Counteracting sallow cheeks, says midwifery. Ascribe, prescribe and be Methodist in a cramped hotel room. Avoid the hostels and take long beards with your agued swords. If you let me stay with flannel, I shall die with listening devices implanted all over my body and telling the truth again and again like staying power. This is pain and worry. Faults have never been to the beach obviously.

She always will be a ninety-year-old policeman in a parchment of no rights and bright places for husbands to go and relax in their wheelchairs and pet project carriers. I know what this chair means against you, when tarted up and flung in a longshot on a checked-out sandpit. Just give the true hope and all comers will go away with pearly white smiles and political agendas in tight tops. What the hell happens when you can go? She doesn’t need the help of decontamination with freckled bare hands. You do a good job, top notch and dodging along leads to heading downtown in tan and auburn checker patterns. I’m just calling to see if the feelers are to blame, if the budgie smugglers are loved by later cheeks and eyes that command sail boats in emotional attachments. I dot the turn-ups and use this as a palpable excuse to make me feel guilty about sitting down in most cases. Let it go with painting.

28/01/2014 - THE FOLKSINGER HAD A STEP-CHILD

            The folksinger had a step-child and that step-child had a prostrate prostate and they all went off into a thimble and lived hurtfully ever after. Nine o'clock does this to you, to your forceful blow to the head, it turns you alternatively and alternately and doesn't forgive the balance of the testes. Awesome intermediates can't help but wallow in their own political stanzas, they cannot give up their juice pantry to the shrouds of ninjas that want to become a part of it, to buy a share. You just thank these kinds of men and let them have your onions and hope they don't spit up on your sleeve cuffs and frequent the haunt between your legs. Asthma does the best it can to dull the sixth sense but the printers with scanner functions are fighting a strong battle.

            Is there any wonder? Taping in the morning and you come down on Saturday with a CD from the king and his hockey fixation coach. Lunchtime wouldn't do for either of them so you'll just have to be a gracious host with your pyjama bottoms around your ankles. Flicking the dishes with your mind spray won't change the channelling or the hype surrounding its imminent dance display. It's making a friendly rampage to the effect of a perfume dispenser. It wants people to open their forelocks to a mere devastation. It would like to go get the laminator's attention.

            Together you pull apart the tank engine and spark up the pretty blonde children with the reticent fire. Leave thighs ablaze. The beady heartbeat is making teddy bears out of the corner scones of my spiritualism, it is honing them into a perfect opaque circle with which we can bollocks up most speaker systems with electrical interference. It was a sound wave that broke the nose of our head of Spanish Business Buzzing. The morpheme should have left my pure class alone and should spend the rest of its life leaving gentleman with sore throats and red scarves alone so that they world can charm along to its goal. We all can fall down with skill, we can cope with the cupping with impressive greenery. It solders the wet doors together and becomes desperate in its downward spiral, like a wad of cash off a Duchess' back.

            My couples therapy sessions are double-booked and the man with pine tree hair is a perpetual barefaced cheek tweak and needs to be stopped before he clamps down on the speed dating events within this area, within that specific pub. Surface areas are being depleted by his insider action and the token black dudes are wanting out of the secularisation that tends to follow. They have catapults and they aren't afraid to use them to deface atheist arguments in case they roll out and over all selfish. Whistles and harpsichords play with sheepdog intensity and the can-can goes on and sets off the pregnancy alarm bells.

            We just do what we can while we shouldn't. 

27/01/2014 - REGARDING THE SOFT TISSUE PACKET

Regarding the soft tissue packet, it is in the mail and making its way at the speed of a shark fin in a drug cartel. What good are little old ladies in this attribute? How best can we squeeze the life out of their noodle-like chromium supply without plunging headfirst into a pit of viscous tea? Should the dear or lady tap the side of a wine glass, we will be diving fifty feet below sea level in pursuit of the bag lady instinct. Mr Big Hat wants to hem the under skin of your colonialism and then sell it on to Mr Thank for use for anyone ages 7 and up. Mr Thank breathes with every man-child he kills, he breeds at the thought of their crippled memory. This game bears out its monopolising sadists and toasts them with an electrified fork in thefoot. What we would all do to serve such a dark and a hungry God!

The more you see of my coat, the less you’ll come to understand or appreciate the stitching of my gold-plated jacket. My mother is a bounty hunter and she spent hours on the sleeves and she really doesn’t appreciate it not being cooed at every ninety minutes. Momma don’t like being kept away from her Christmas films. She has listeners everywhere, mostly spiders with paint on their pincers. Perhaps today you gave out because of all the bookshelves in your way, perhaps it was a brick wall that really didn’t cuddle up to being talked down to by you.

The detonation is a tenth of my price, a fifth of the iodine and a quarter of Sasquatch Feed. When combined together, these elements shall cause all rock bands to bleed at the drums and call out for cackles in their substitute ears. There really is something to say about guitar strings that run down the back without any sort of keys or chords being pressed. Lines of little ladies will form and queues should shrivel up and become a thing of the past like the stigmata these little ladies felt when they last went shopping at the local outlet. Wardrobes keep opening and flapping their doors like they were portcullises.

As brilliant as it may seem, the all-round brochure is sitting on my phlegmatic throat right now, pretending it has woollen spools all over its back. It just wants attention to grasp at, to grasp itself with and I don’t think the Widow wants to start up that sort of thing until after the condoning period has run its natural course. Sensitivity is a productive quality in most party negotiations, especially where Mr Big Hat and his unlucky company are concerned. These chumps always end up dying by sitting on untested remote controls and loosing their tiger wives onto their panty regions. Armies send out what they can but even then they don’t want endings for the messenger boy to yammer out. They just tap out the invasion and display it on the broad side of a hammock.

26/01/2014 - BE STILL AND LACK PRACTICALITY

Be still and lack practicality, my love. Lope over the trees and be fragrant in the recollection of your shotgun nightmare, my love. Sartre said it last, my love. His pipe is quivering fast, my love. The commandments that gave up existence to the hi-fi are right here, right now, my love. They replace greenery with energy from the fastidious door knocker society, my love. These words are discounted on the DVD, my love. These words are in high definition on the rival company, my love. Copyright can be a swell thing, my love. Working on the drivel that makes up dribble and the giant man’s cap storm is not quite so beleaguered in the eye of the law, my love. The day with cum will come, my love. The light show is a master race which it keeps grovelled and naked for the sake of the lovely ladies and their youngsters with their train sets and hand-me-downs, my love. The apple is your eye, my love. Iris, my love. The windows are closing and shutting and closing and clapping all the way, my love. Nothing quite so vulgar, my love. The man will drop it into his apron pocket, my love. He will help us, my love. He is a good man, my love. He is ambidextrous, my love. He will guide us right back to where we started without so much as a by your leave, my love. We will be the glimmer on the fish, my love.

 

            And now they seek to seek the verbiage. The king has a special place for our hearthstone, a winsome plate of cheese to throw in our faces to blend them together for the final act. His court are surprisingly female and don’t even pretend to be keyed up to the mash storm. His queen is at the doorway with her locks in her hemlock and her depression in her halitosis. The war is sworn in, the war is a swear word, the war is a bright and ethnically obtuse place, the war is my love wrapped in gunfire and run over by a trained tank. We usually cough when there’s a war on, pristine coughs which go on for no longer than two seconds. It does sometimes cross the mind how regularly war and the king go together, with one hand in the mortar shell and a lifetime’s supply of cherry trees to ensure elbow space. The party of three that have come for an audience will have to go away while the strategy meetings go on and we’re all down in the dungeons trying to figure out how to live a life without stand-up comedy or lonely hearts columns. Time out in the ghetto goes along with sheets and sweet fishing signals but unfortunately we’ve stopped living in the ghetto, meeting in the ghetto. We’ve decided to have a war room and fill it with fruity roof tiles and gay plush furniture. The end times are coming and grammar must be thrown out of the fabulous blood.

25/01/2014 - SHE CAME FROM THE SAHARA

She came from the Sahara just to touch the microphones of every traffic button pusher, to run slipshod across the slapdash that seems to follow such absolvent things. The saxophones act like klaxons in her head and chant the merry-go-round tune within tinned rags and other military jingoist uniforms. The body double is crying in the corner and his because has been brought by a women who smells faintly like his mouth mother from the picture on the wall: MOST WANTED. She sees him and pities him like a knee jerking forward in the face of a zombie. She would have hunted this sort of man in a previous life though she isn’t quite sure how long she would have waited for him to pick himself up and do something about his troubled whimpering. It’s just a silly faze often ascribed to fillies in their first winter.

Don’t get me wrong though I don’t know this women or the hums she sighs or the bees that she keeps when none of the aslant are looking dressed up and reproached. She was predisposed to living in awkward conditions and this meant that she could never really speak her mind around Canadians with socks in their coat pockets. Life has done enough to her for us to let go of our wet hamstrings and give this poor madam a chance to catch her breath in an economic harshness that destroys many mellows from multiple shatter points. She was mild within a mere three week period and has since never so much as tapped on her original potential for loud alarum calls. She has set her sights on becoming a gravedigger, known to be a most opulent career.

            The miles are coming along nicely, eating sweets and sticking the backside into the half dozen air for minimal effect and effigy. The warped spacious facial is joined by a studio audience in basking in the ratings of page turners and anonymous tippers of hedonic celebrity. As are we all, as are we all. The plucking of guitars washes like most big things do in the rain and calls up insurance companies to eat fish and chip records whilst pooping the fine print of electric bills. Wedding bells roar out into the night and white cups are flung in the air where they twinkle as they shatter and feed misconception into the wrong memory slot. The game is armed and running again just in time for the sinus infection to lay waste to the team. They're motto is a duck on a plank with ink on its back. We hope against hope that the fixtures will whore themselves out a little more and face the downpour with righteous chin action.

            She waits like a HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG poster, curling at the edges with a fading muzzle in between. Her black curved fingers might as well be letters of the forest and the pole could just as easily be the Northern Wind. It's coming along nicely. Ten years, definitely.

24/01/2014 - AVID COLLECTORS ON CONVEYOR BELTS

            Avid collectors on conveyor belts sell parts and straps to Arabians that usually print in axis regulations. The lines of code are very turbulent and defy political stubs with brief dungaree fashion flutters. The ordeal is teal and second only to paramount lookalike campaigns. Horses lead the trough, this is how these things tend to go. The flags are being knocked down one at  a time while the mayor sleeps in his inky bed with his thumbs in most philosophical mores, straddling formulas from the seventies and upwards. The gardeners will trim the avid collectors for no extra pence but they will expect a favour from time to time, a blindside and a purchase without words. You are only fire, sir, there are sixteen free editions left to be made in your name and the washing up bowl overflows at the very first sign that your initials are touching the page. These pages are old and yellow and command water from pristine glasses.

            The patrols are coming out of the glue sticks to show the world that expectation is really just a qualm for the elderly and the swimmers that rely on their tunnel vision. Springtime does wonderful things for the active mind, it turns their second estates into belly-up partitions that advocate reverse slave labour and reciprocated hunger strikes. Worlds turn on their hands and dislocate their wrists just to see up the skirt of a stage cleaner and so well. Love is a direction for artichokes to ignore, and ignore it they do at their own disparity. The license says much about sex and first name basis in its gay parade. The experts are throwing down their gritty gauntlets all along the beaten track to seek the favour of the sidewalk sniffers. It's an ilk thing and everything is really auctioned off without the doors on.

            The hats are made of paper here and the whiskers are told to sod off at the expense of a black-ops specialist with their wives stuck in glittery vices and their sexy side villains trotting around with trout in their grand speeches. Trying to find a better way is like trying to let go of the anti-virus scan, it would demean and result in the big burly black man beating you with his dressing down, the ones reserved for suitcase guests of the number 34 women's magazine. Shoot it out while I read in this here corner and we'll just see who is deserving of my top notch algebra lessons and the name of Stuart the Sloop. They make thrift into dried desert landscape and teenage air raids into riddled smart guys with tendered allies. Set something to charge for two minutes and you'll see things with a really bright jangle, like the footsteps of a radio host guest with giant digits tucked behind the name. This is the breakfast bar and that is the man with the earring that has come to trust you in spite of everything. Ah, sweet privilege.

23/01/2014 - AT LEAST THERE'S THAT WINDOW

            At least there’s that window open over there and your fly undone over there. In the meantime though maritime law is still abound and deserves your hollering respect if only for five minutes and the lifetime of a simple gnat. You asked for business and this is what business does to you when you ask for it, it rips you apart and fills you with tin cans and reputations for slam dunking the desolation of the very cost you avoided all your unnatural garden space. There’s really no need to remain specious in the face of the flaccid anymore, they can stand upon your gnarly knees and bony britches as well as any honest madam’s issue. The decade will revive itself with smelling salts provided by its next of kin in the back of a rhinestone truck of holly suckle clovers. Just call me over and see how I change for the printed newspaper questions of the next century or so. The supple demand so much and dive for so loathsome a day that the good of the mild wouldn’t even switch eyebrows when wrinkling the yellow stuff. It deviates from the tears you expectorate, it trickles down into the backs of hairy hounds and angry sopranos. They must really hate your empathy and the direct line it seems to have to the taps of beery souls and Icelandic Spindles. You are a capital gentleman and despise as such but are not despised like you should be. Such an honest position to be stuck in.

• As the bedraggled go on, I join their ranks to see what it is that they are honking on about on top of the restaurant roofs and the Lazy Susan chimneys that seem to go on for donkey's years without sideburns or quaint quips about quintessential combustion engines. The trick is to bleed with distinction.

• After becoming enamoured with your homegrown scent, I spent a night in your lost place just to accomplish something infinitesimal in your name that wouldn't see much locked behind bars and smooth jazz for paltry existence's wages and all the track records that seem to lull around the teehee. The French fries were illuminated and disgraceful.

• Being a girl who works the red room, surely you would understand the lengths to which I go to become a greater size, a newer size, a size that can be followed to the end of the world and the earth and all the universe that surrounds both without ever actually saying more than needs to be said for the sake of the calendars that come straight out of the leaves. Just go along with the green parts.

• And years later, I will be in the grates, stuck in the sewer as you are throwing your tiptoe around, brushing up against velvet carpets and underground machinery that doesn't do much for the sake of retrospective seed growth and the crop yield that comes straight of Erasmus and Neil and all the wives they've hoodwinked. Jokes are promiscuous promises really.

22/01/2014 - FINGERS HAVE BEEN LOST

'Fingers have been lost for the people's republic of shame. Fingers and toes are factually artistic and deserve gradients of displeasure being hiked their way and wedged on with super effective sticky glue. I have literally nothing against the game being a foot but the practicality is leaving me seven degrees of cold and who really wants to spend time with someone who is shivering anyway? The Norse Mythology Calendar I leant to you that minute ago, I need it and soon as the dawn arrives. e have games to carry on bigotry with or else the entire orbit will be thrown off whack and who  are you to see that through anyway? The babies are screaming for you like a hindrance with pretty girl wings and happiness could do you a world of sugary  trouble without you suddenly realising it. The dears are trying their hardest but the friendship network is crying out for a better art form to incur the critic's displeasure with. The coughing fit is always in order and ready to be dispatched when you're back is finally turned from me and the night time is a yearly bypass. It's hard to think while this glaring contest is going on just an inch above our heads. I don't blame you, of course, unless you want me to do so. I listened to your mind's broadcast, powerful words and weakling phrases that string together to make wet September days. I'm not judging you, of course, not unless you have a prenuptial agreement ready for me to sign and let slip from my wakeful consciousness. I didn't think you had it in you to destroy my capabilities one by one with flame retardant temptation and erasure marks all over the hardware. It's soft and downy and horns waggle when you least expect them. The Scotsman always says and never lies, especially when he's irate as he is today. Thsi day, sorry. Today is a horribly confusing misnomer for he temporally stroppy.  Just dust up your yip skirt and let us get the yip out of here with our yip dignity attached to our brown satchels. The weather is very tasteful and yet dispassionately alien to our eternal drinking contest. You just can't help letting the ghost your four-bedroom apartment with the skyline and everything, it's awfully persuasive when it needs to be. This up here is a mercy.'

From thenceforward, our hero winded down his uppity attitude and displayed thirty acts of kindness to the prettier girls and boys of the village with the promises that he would make them each his squire and assign them important duties that would involve polishing the upper end of his shield. Our hero was a blanket statement, a damp putter in the dark with his twinkly bells in the hellish vice of discography. Our hero will refute all possibility by the time he is done with the village and all the folk there will drag him out, drown him out, dead.

21/01/2014 - ODE TO KISSY PAWS

Ode to Kissy Paws: I am a plantation for the York of your tourist attraction. It is hereditary, a fixed complication on the map of wedding dress photos and we just cannot go against thirst like that, not so swiftly and without courting rituals. Things keep happening to increase my utility bill and drum down my thank you card collecting and that all amounts to a helluva lot of occipital rage. It's savagery! I'm out to get all those mother dearest's who want to pluck me wit my own cheek and tassel my steam control. This is not some such or somehow or even somewhere but it is something really tre annoying. WHEN LIFESTYLES COLLIDE THEY SOMETIMES BECKON THE BEAKS OF AMMO AND TRUDGE AMONG THEM WITH FLEET FEET AND SNOTTTY NOSES. This is a ragamuffin marriage proposal and one that takes too long to complete with reasonable doubt periods in between. I have numerical values to sort and solidify with cylindrical driving and perchance a bit of squealing from the fan girls who will internalise my actions with the breath of their adolescent hands.

Ode to the Colt in my sandwich bag: doing for don't will not break my heart as I ride this third gondola from the left down the tributary strip with hopes that your lovely little ball sack will channel my kernel of quite relinquished respect. Its a tether to the dimension that lies between your lamplight love and you cannot make two identities out of one that's going down in a creepy box for the sake of the man with the marmalade in his beard. We gave im the chance to romance his Genghis on top of a workaholic lady friend i of his so that they could just simply level with one another and let all the ministry business go floating down some tyrannical vulcan lake. Think of it as a suicide that the boatman doesn't anticipate but in fact types out for the summary of virtual fear outbreak. It lashes your  Nefertiti tongue an absolvers all the records for the sake of the glum chums who are working on the dock to make a buck for the pretty, knee-deep stranglers with all their glowering in their eyes and all their Maize in their cross-stitch. It's just like laughter all over again.

Ode to Something on Your Mind: is there a dribble of doubt in the back parts of your nether section? is ther e away out of the wake that doesn't involve colliding headfirst with the deceased and all of their more delicate relatives? Isn't it just marvellous how we can get along with our pastimes and not even once considering the sexiness of the truth? You're doing it again, rolling your eyes and flattening your thighs for the moneymakers and their monkeymakers. Now seems a good time as any to establish your musical origin and to trust the farce of the gecko on the wooden log in front of the campfire. It's high time we sweep you up.

20/01/2014 - SHIT THE SAUCE

Shit the sauce with kicks from the knees and the frocks as we pass along the elevator’s quizzical shaft. The daily yellow show fills each and every room and makes the beauty of being done taste like ozone without good times to fail on or say yes to. There are many ways to loosen the end, relax the wine glass and outnumber the wants and desires of tourists. Lest we go down with the ship, we’re going to keep paying the tulle and maybe, just maybe, the action star will glance over our script and prepare us for the dramatic hair.

                        Type the Idaho microcosm into most search engines and Veronica will wait and let the chisel make its own symphony of tinkering and tickling sounds. The wakeful state is sixty-five years in the making and as endless as the photograph of most brown sugar products. Can you laugh harder at a challenge? When was the last time? Did the officers descend immediately or sit until someone got their title correct? Such a devilish eye in a supportive handgun. The casting votes are in and the punk bands dispute the use of lipstick outright and without ceremony. All comments will be summarily shot down for standing up in the line and walking distance of reason because it hurts and we can’t afford to find anymore barrels of tears. The continents shift and rupture and the superlative tense will just stand around confusing the blues band with its flapping workaholic ethics and special bucket and spade for conquering the universe.

 

            The stabbing is controlled and the boogie is all right and reflective of sulky shoes on the tissue paper ears of carefree individuals with delicate trespasser hampers to hide in comfortable, frumpy clothes. Days wane with the streets and back lanes of Empress impresarios that bespoke the left wing creation act, the one that deserves no capitals or economic viability. Standing close by are angelic figures with shiny red belt buckles depicting the exciting midlife of quilts in South America. Meanwhile the shipbuilders are replying to fingers with crocodiles of fashion footnotes. This is my gin joint and I possess all the windows and mirrors and choose to scent them with your vaporous insults and callous fixes. The men leave discreetly with body-popping cadavers and barrier reef jokes in bad taste. There’s nothing suitably stunning about ladders, I know this, but I want that twist in my brackish water. The appealing factors will prosper when this done and done again for safety precautions.

                                    Even you deserve better ministers and less contrivance where the mechanical union is practiced. Cover-ups and conspiracies are making the job of living even more tarrying and no matter how much you believe in civilised Nazis, you’ll find yourself letting go inch by ropey inch. The salty socialites want to see the problems on the back of your daughter’s hands. Come home soon for the fast bucks. Lessons begin shortly and we can’t do this without victory processions and we can’t do those without your daughters. Don’t break.

19/01/2014 - THIS IS THE GREAT EXCUSE

This is the great excuse of how we know Larry: he updates himself on a lemony basis. He’s a slippery bastard and hasn’t got a nice word to wear as a hat and he’s setting off egg timers all over the shop because that is his want and his want is the key to his release and very little else good it seems. The way to work out how Larry so obviously offed himself in a completely original and indefinable way is to go into the situation, the crime scene via calculus and then to tinker around with the drops of life before they ground down the drawers into a fine and loathsome pasta sauce. There isn’t too much salt, there shouldn’t be provided you don’t shake the shaker for the first eighteen hours of your reclamation. That was your spirit but this is now your soul; mark it with soil from your grandmother’s grave or, failing that, your great grandmother’s grave. It has to be maternal and it has to be now before preferential treatment comes into play and the headbands get handed out and nobody with viaducts would be caught dead fashioning such a hideous design. Trust in the dopamine, it will guide you to the proper exhuming of your television set and become something more than a plan to box the ears of respectful cordiality, something more than a punch in the planning office, nothing more than a Moorish Bag for Life. It’s an understanding between the universe and the study we’re conducting outrageously fast and with little regard for the bed sheets. We’ve stained them to within an inch of their worthwhile use and now we’re on the verge of capital ‘D’. Pass me the power of thunderbolt, I want to shake shit up like a glass bottle in a cardboard pit.

 

One would imagine that the doghouse would contort to conversion charges and avoid tax deduction out of fear that the man with the slicked back hair might pretend that every cyclist he has in his pay, is keen and without pause for the cause. He would have the entire planet believe that every man and infant can be taller than the female but who would want to live in such a lawless town of patriotic stature? I know I’m ready to jump along the length and width of it until the tops spin into brainless attributes and carry around a more steady and Mescaline Cane. He’ll be tripping for at least a frothy one from the back end of the ice box. How could you be so much like a rut, you can’t help but enunciate like that whenever I mention it. You and your touchy art gallery of pottery and penniless tarts in a parked party zone. Drinks are outside of the glass but artful enough to reach out for tactful and tell the wazzock to stop fannying about. It’s a fine one, a fingered line of popping milk cartons that make the girls tip over and then sit up for hours.

18/01/2014 - THE HURLY BURLY TANK ENGINE

                The hurly burly tank engine is a mile down the lane and the pat on the back of currency is all you'll ever see while I'm still around and at this platform, pontificating. Some of the choir yawn but I won't hold that against them because you've taught them worse manners than I can handle or deal with or even throw under the next bus. We're just waiting at the business parlour and expecting our expletives to fly away with our chop suey, tangling together like a horse and carriage after an industrial accident of moderate proportions. These are meagre times and we ogres have to do something jaded to keep our public impressed. They tryst among the libraries and Higgs-Boson won't have too much trouble with identifying the way out of the staggering bar we set for the future generations of yawning altar boys. It sickens the spleen and I know a trawler man.

            These women that you follow around are chaste and fair and never once justify the actions of a fat man on top of the coffee table. They feel the hours coming down upon them from somewhere short of on-high and they only complain when they're forced around the bend and have to double up on aspirin prescriptions without the go ahead from their own mentality. It's a decorate plate, they're thought process going around and something falling off with a chip. Son of a bitch, what's going on in this washing bag I'm carrying? To say that I've said something wrong is to speak with true chatter and solipsism. Please don't look at me, I'm rediscovering elements of my anima in the hedge fund I applied for in thirty eight. It was a fine year for foraging and raging about the frustration of state.

            This isn't an ailment, this isn't a sickness, this is a pin prick on the spoiled nerve getting along just nicely with the music winding around in the background, as if drunk on cheesy puffs and pure vodka. It all becomes as rational as a lizard's eye spinning on its axis. My jalopy just cannot take the strain of this mournful tune called Limpid Pools. It whistles to my brain scan and blows that whistle all the way back to a troubled past involving superheroes and wobbling arseholes.

            But let us all go to Australia! Let us be cream cakes for half a day! Let us all respect the boundaries of our forbears and stop snooping around in their misdemeanours and trials of errors. I can still walk the dog and make soapy glances from handrail glue. Your smile is making we trustees startle at butterflies, amass armies of the insects and set them on discreet swimming classes just in case they're still packing monumental vouchers for the Staid Dot Patrol. Their actions scythe and sickle and don't even leave mistletoe to snack on or perform balancing acts with. Film scores have enough to say about the staples in Dayton, Texas.

1Z/01/2014 - TEAMS FROM THE ENVIRONMENT

Teams from the environment agency are constantly asking about the triumvirate that secretly asks questions about the honest policies of most laterally thunking foundations. he water coolers are out and the graphic novelists are ready to open their raison d'être sticks out to the straight and unlaced world. The burdens are juicy and the sexy voices that only come crashing out of the night time sky will thunder with outrageous proportions and make you stronger than you've ever been before. You'll nearly die and then ask questions about the parents and their hieroglyphic race against hedonism.. Hundreds of miles away they're debilitations will be sharpening the wands into finesse with berries and ghoulies and various other yolks. Turn things off for tomorrow and you'll thank me for it, like your ornithologist and his two-bit letter bust. He keeps doing it in the rain and doesn't even care when the singles hit the charts and he's the one without the buzz in his pocket or even a likely friend to inform him before the sun comes out. Oh how he lives his life in the stone age and doesn't give one jot of a tattle! Keep telling him to check for stamps though!

It’s so frighteningly telling that it strips little cherubs of their protective covering and leaves them in bubble suits that don’t quite wrap around sufficiently, let alone give the woman bearing a lighter the chance to set normality on fire. As the centimetres will afford you, life isn’t so good for the decibels, they spend half their time worrying about the other half of their time which remains a mystery even to themselves. They can’t say why the cogitate but their subjunctive verbs fit the bill all right so I suppose we can only thank our lucky stars that the milk hasn’t been spun to splashing point yet. Everyone has a dark side when it comes to lovely walks on the beach with your mind on cheap science fiction films and all the times you captured your image without really considering the significance of the wig in the background. Matters improve and all the coffee in the world wouldn’t, couldn’t and really shouldn’t go back an hour for mere congratulations and self congratulations. The show requires sexually transmitted progress reports so plain old rapport will not just suffice and that means putting your fingers out to pasture.

The capitalists go around with hats on their heads and immortality that is the size and wid5h or an ant living on a combine harvester. I’m watching like a pie smuggler with milk in his pockets and all the dependent girls do despondency with minimal plot. I would   reassess that moment so that we might  be somewhere and a sad little man with an Irish accent and a tapering dismissal of most emergency hours. The shielded television coughs up a lung and you try to flower shop , where men’s throats freeze up and the giant man’s head banging against a cathedral is more of a first try.

16/01/2014 - HEARING NOISES COMING FROM THE BATHROOM

Hearing noises coming from the bathroom is a common misdemeanour for the allergic and afflicted train attendants on their days-off. It's a felony but one that can be laughed off with a simple HAHA or, for the more discerning thinker, HEHEH. The judges aren't usually so harsh that they don't let you bring a book to the cell, they just prefer that you read something a bit outside of contemporary literature, something weird and offhand. They're reading it over your shoulder after all and they pay their librarians to stack the funkiest shit on the sliding scene.

            I'm here to tell you what to do, to tell you what you want to hear about the systematic depression of your people, the ones with the croupier hats and the dancing monkeys. The judges may have nuked the Hades out of your territory but they really just want to integrate you better into their cataclysmic ideology. I'm actually paid to state that too, what are lark! The food is terrible here with its poison all up in its mascarpone, created by granules of Neapolitan Trajectory Spittle. They aim by the yard which is fine for us in the staff hut but not so much for you and your new buddies out in the pleasure fields of opaque retribution. You're picking up reasons to live, stuffing them into your gob at every chance you get if you've got the right idea and don't want to die of starvation out in this mess.

            They told me that you were a mother and a brother, that you went ahead with the challenges of being both at the same time and let the world consider the implications of your existence. Perhaps the fuzz on your lip threw them off a bit but that's natural for an institution of induction, they're not really sure what to do when the 'Both' box is ticked. They have to give your space back and try not to make a fuss with the other dudes that work the otter park. Misery isn't just found on the leaflets, it's a carefully-managed product which is fit to specification for the likes of many likeminded bulldozers.

            All the green light hurts my eyes which I suppose are your eyes now that we're headed for the Shadow Pots. You've brought a friend along and I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate her before the warden hears and tries to hang me by my dickie bow again. The warden thumps bibles not because he believes in them but because he thinks that violence will draw out the good stuff and emphasise his lilting speech. The blanks are not blanks here, they are finely attuned to your neural capacitors and expect to be paid up front the next time you visit the toilet and forget to wash your hands thoroughly.

            These blocks are for hustlers and their erstwhile grandparents who just want to exist like ants which is fair enough. Keep them in certifiable chains though and don't ask why. 

15/01/2014 - ANDERSON SQUARE

            Anderson Square seems like a prohibited zone for redneck media but our intrepid reporters are yet to descend with toothy evergreens on the sweet spots. The spacing could be more individualised but the byte is worth its weight in eight and shouldn't be sold on for a bakery book that exemplifies the horsehair dessert to be eaten with silver spoons and narcoleptic rage. This is a nervous matter with yellow pugs all run down with blinking flashlights and torches and Portcullis Probability Dances. This is a Tuesday matter, a matter for Tuesday and all its bingo-calling and I think you should hate yourself for not realising whilst the menu was still in my hands and filled with just as much transdimensional thinking as my abstract character description can handle. The call-out is coming straight back around but it might be tempted to detour as soon as we're on board and that really would be a shame and it would be your shame with your Catholic prints on it. It causes the great dowry and the piano keys are all inflatable provided you know the sequential preferences of the knight's sleeping arrangements. The mistake could make it for the winter solstice.

            Austria indents the hierarchical spirit of the pyramid, stratifies it with emblems and various apparel just because the gentry hasn't quite landed safely just yet and they're really just letting the tickers reply to their loved ones before carrying on in the linear fashion. This is the perfect opportunity with all the right mollycoddled moments behind curtains ready to pop out and drink up whatever has been left begging at the bar. The birds may whistle now but just you wait till the time when the bulb needs changing, then the Petri won't look half so different, let alone broken. So how about it, as the old rhinoceros goes? How about we close off the future events with Hallowed Orchards and see if the electricity has a dose of douse in it to keep its crooked edges in check. The police will come by eventually to sucker punch those guys but we're upstanding citizens and really shouldn't get involved in the shower like this. The train's rain is making me sleepy, making me crazier than the rest of the time I'm sleepy so mayhap I should let go of my caboodle and just throw on a home run outtake video. Justice.

            The day is long and the road is many times larger than that and doesn't need to be deserved by the likes of you horrible lot with your shoddy contrivances and ironical indemnit. This is the ego problem, this is the toothless man telling you that you've gone too far, that you should slow down boy and let your food digest a little before digging up a memoir story from a soap factory and one that works to the nth degree all while in the name of the madman who sues me when I'm dead. The joy of the forage! 

14/01/2014 - THE DAY, THE DAY

                The day, the day, the night and the afternoon - they open themselves out into superlative traipsing schemes that demand the attention of all poor interpretations of yeomans and their best friends from Skipton. Each has a maw that goes hawhaw and their sticky tape fingers bring all futures to an inherent conclusion that shatters with a dragon snap and an engorged sequence of numbers that keeps itself from going mad by screaming EIGHT at every possible juncture though mostly for the sake of the children.  They are amassed in the internal structure of a hypodermic whale and we're all just here to observe its life signs and decide on their vitality to the project and maybe dilate some of the produce with our ring fingers whilst being equal to each other in every possible way. Prepare the colanders. March on for tea and grace and the paste that holds them intrinsically together. It's just like the spittle of a walking dog, walking to its bony-limbed fatherhood. Get in the convertible, grab onto the leather interior and let's strap over the highway with our own unique and plucky brand of justice. It's tinged with tragedy because that sort of shit never really gets out of your clothes and we want to be remembered long after we have overproduced.

            All in all it's a quiet day on the battle front and the aliens are busy working on chemical solutions for the indestructible paradise's preservation and inclination towards the tenth hour of every day. This is the higher education and we all pay for it in our own way. You pay for it with your handsome looks and I pay for it with my tripod and its unified species of progeny. I am the quest for all kinds of unholy endeavours and that is what made me popular in school, all the boys want to have their soul annulled. Shake the mote with real life dress tumbling and the actual jars will ascend to the rank of comrade by existing on a simple uniform theory of quantum mechanics that doesn't fit so comfortably in its inky black dress. Your adoptive parents have done with the whole holding hands business and have moved onto Jewish holidays, snacking on the sweaty parts and reminding the hairy parts to condition and honeysuckle.

            How far have you got with the presentation? Could designating the might of a generation redirect the potential flow of political discussion, if only for a while? This is the car. The car is for sitting in and being ridiculous about the length of its doors will get you nowhere for no change at all. That is the sound of a signed performance and the presentation will drip drop like pennies on a blanket, straining its typographical heart out for ambulances to come. Sticking to it? Sticking to it like an adamant protector of underwhelmed architecture. Nobody's particularly bothered with the katana or the other half of the wedding. The grey haired man either.

13/01/2014 - WHAT A BIND!

            What a bind! Such a blinder! Let go of your vestigial self and walk a mile in my shadowy showboat. This boat goes on four hours and hours and you need documents just to get past the camel yard. I make no apologies for how many times I open out tissues and rescind the right to be upright, I make no grand proclamations further sourcing how little your homecoming is to the rest of the street. I'm a nervous tick on your glass spine, a mask for the rendering of a man with his fingers up his North-SOuth. You're a bad boy and your parole officer has been telling me with painted thumbnails.

            These are presidents, the very presidents, the very same presidents that set their predecessors on turbo charge for the sake of the children and their undying support and flame retardant spray up their spritzers. This is is a biological abolition, in an attack on the tap that serves and te man that warps te lawyers; with tippers. Big tippers. Bad dreamy breath. This is a recip[e for success and you;re not looking so lookng hot. A mind such a mine is losing its integrity for the nitty gritty and the nation will weep for mourning stations and wait around and ah hang around for the front teeth group picture. This friend is god, and e says ooh hoo ooh hampered. He's a bit of a frency that isn' worth the asking about let alone the cost of living. She was a tailor and is that controlled, at a controlled setting? It might crash and what can I do for you in piano business. Jam says a lot about bvelllies.

            I am doing my best for the numpty, I am doing what I can for his mother's approval and hopefully her splayed forgiveness but the numpty is trying my patience with all his smarmy remarks about dolphins and baseball gloves. He's trying to turn this into some kind of American showstopper but I refuse to give him quarter. He's trying it on, the bastard and that's not acceptable in this current sociological climate.

            He says, e don't forgive much and let's his hair down with all the motherfuckers in the street just o see if jelly can stand te fantastic compliclusion with one foot-two-foot and laugh your burgers away. Ths is a Sherpa and I am no numpty because I am no place north of the border, I am a traitor to only that sling slag that calls herself my spawn originator and doesn't even call me back for reprisals. I could kill her but then he would have a reason to chow don with me an all the aliens he happens to knw would juist kill me and piledrivers and other very dangerous things that skinheads approve of. Ablaze. Fantastic. Just about manage all of that, I can. I'm a good old soul me and the business end of any cainsw will be welcomed by my horrendous imagews of inches and maybe even tied up accordingly. 

12/01/2014 - SOMEONE STOP THE DIRECTOR

Someone stop the director before he makes a fool out of another helium balloon on its way to a coat and tail show off the South Pacific. In fact, why not someone shoot the bastard before he can finish this bum of a film for the thrush demographic he so ardently tries to vitrify. Yes, I vindicate murder when it is necessary and when I’m necessarily drunk and off my medication. Don’t worry, it’s not exactly prescription and my wife is just as much of a wallow as I am. Okay so she isn’t my wife but she is my common house partner and, in being such, is open to all regulations and cutlery finance options. I am kind, much as that would shock you. I do myself an honour by breathing every day and make sure that I leave behind a few tips for the peasant children to carry back to my funeral parlour. The frazzle is just leading me on and I won’t be having it on my filing cabinet. Some would turn the hose on me but I know that Erasmus would sooner save my brackish skin from the inherent tentacles. He’s a good lad is Erasmus, provided you don’t attend one of his cocktail mixers. They can turn you to stone with a flick of an amp.

                                                                                                This is certainty they told me, this is certainty they keep telling me while I’m busy fishing out the key rings of abandoned school projects and my rubbers are curling the hairs like scimitars and I suppose there’s stuff to be done whilst I’m still vacant and trespassing on my own hairless flesh. This might be a good problem for better men to solve but I am half-Irish so I’ll settle for that and wear my most iron-worthy shirt, the one with the pinstripe pockets and silken cufflinks. The day will be saved by shaving cavemen and I will run amok in a town straight out of a comic book because I can and I’m surreally poor by today’s austere standards. This is the word that tunes out your ears and I know you can’t stand to keep them from twitching. So twitch. Just do this for me, while they’re out fetch me a pail of vials and I’ll fill them with my specimens until the day that  farts issue forth from the undergrowth without animal consumption and conjunctivitis. As of today I am growing my own twinkle toes and then I will file down the nails to a perfect prick and sell each of them on to different threads of government. This is exactly the shit they need to end all the dastardly scheming going on within their own four colour walls. The war on platforms will end soon enough and on a plinth no less, I imagine that it will be black and shined in places and spots where the fingers fall. The thumbs are fine though, they just let off a few fumes and that’s all good in the hood.

11/01/2014 - BOUNCY ETHNIC MUSIC

Bouncy ethnic music plays along New York’s predictable wet nurse and the shorn monsters that suckle at their stormy tit. The connection is just barely a grain in a spoon with wings and a shabby haircut that doesn’t need to be validated or stopped to be an unfolding solution filled with heart hears and light cases of cheap beer. Foreign export. Do we even know about the man with the blurry blue shirt? His destiny? Quit screwing around and sample the death with which we speak the words so softly from your laminated lattice thrust upwards with silly powers. Hold on tight and feel the rush of continents from between your costume designer. The piano is in the tail spin and sections of the cross breeze. The little oinks are the ones that pull over tour buses to search for body cavities for the wrap party. How are you doing with that by the way? Wreaths with glass cabinets and jeans torn at the knees, that is exactly what I promised to you that time.

I aim to be very upset with guns later and the mullet might necessitate an entire wreck on the net, on the web. Flames go off spurting their little guitars but Blake had the right idea with his shitty beetles in the airing cupboard. I once went dancing through that fire and all the dweebs came out to charm me with their holsters crammed full with DIY hammers and various indoctrinated tools of electricity. Levae it as it is, I always say, leave it on the river with the rest of life’s turgid hay. At once I am torn between joining a tongue click and making bass players with just my smile in the middle of a gym class. Say what you will of the rich and expect nothing more, we have our hobbies that descend skyscrapers with oiled hair and eased pain. All we ask for is a few food pellets for our hungry green ties and probably a medieval song for out quartz hearts to suck the joy out of during the workaday commercials.

Take for instance this coincidence, this is the meeting room and these are the thoughts we display from balloons and number plates of swamped primary colours and, needless to say, the girl with long hair there has a gassy foreclosure in mind for our chief demographic and she sure as hell won’t ask for permission, not while we’re out in the dusk playing with ourselves. Saying goodbye usually does it but not this time, as usual forever doesn’t like to be kept waiting and would much rather make a strain on a spaghetti machine, the spaghetti machine of our Germanic schism. This will tear us apart and good glasses can’t do ought. But let’s keep it polite for the slow dancers and their average yawning and obtuse breathing patterns. This is a newspaper and it is crawling with termites, termites that descended from the attic like saintly presidents from their days.

10/01/2014 - CATCH COLD IF AND WHEN

Catch cold if and when they ask to be as good as the clicker absentee and you can’t mean to be fair from the breadth of a hairline ambassador with the recommendations all lined out and built around the wrong blue eyes that go puckered in lenses of hurtled cigars and left-handed assassins gamble something atrocious for the sake of the beatitude of her lips on the blitz and we could start an obvious war of fluttered anxiety trapped and laced around an executive bomb with behaviours as triggers and spontaneous reactions and missionary ears all pinned back for gypsy population filled with people to protect the marked prime minister from adolescence of more of us coming in to limber up walking sticks with loose ends and foreign languages that seem to be a combination of doctors reciting Hebrew poetry to villainous cockneys

 

THE MOST VALUABLE PIECE IS A WINNING STAGNANT TELEGRAM TOADY FOR FIGHTING THE HUMAN CONDITION ALL BOUND UP IN A RED MAN’S BEARD WITH INDUSTRIAL SCALES TIPPING IN HIS WITHIN AND DOING WEIGHTLESS TRICKS WITH HIS PRIVACY, IT MAKES FOR PARTICULAR AUCTIONS ON THE MEMBRANE OF FORTUNE THAT IS SUBSTANTIALLY REDUCED IN ORDER TO CHECK THE LINING OF A DINNER JACKET FOR IMPORTANT PENCHANTS IN PIGEON FANCYING RECORD BOOKS, AS FOUND IN THE REQUIRED MATERIAL FOR THOSE WITH PITHY AND FINE ENDURANCE AS PAWNBROKERS FART UNDER HORTICULTURE WITH IRONY ABOUNDS AND INCIDENTALLY MATES AND CHILDISH GAMES WITH BRUISES AND BUSINESS AS USUAL FOR CREATIVE WIVES

 

counter the counter to target haymaker competency with replies that adjunct and wound with fearful, fearsome amenability that leads on to increasing negativity and spatula aching that lives and lies for inevitable unless and grunting sensors that just crack the cheeks and gnash the teeth in the addled snow storm of my illusions, my oh so violent illusions as found at the pit of the chasm of the drawing boards that leap with a few words for remaining cool in the face of funereal debtors that tell three prattlers to swell in the water of religion which leads out to the custard of wizened stable minders at half past two and beautiful for weeks in pretty lady Brighton with her plucky nose and stony purses in coffins that ricochet with golden oxygen and splatter force that makes one look peculiar for at least a seventh of an eleventh hour going off to the train peacefully with green paper mache on its chic throwing arm

 

They Want You To Be Something Other Than Caroline While You Live Among Casting Directors, This Comes From A Wholesome Wish That You Were Alive In The Way That They Perceive As Alive and Tagged On With Keen Accuracy And Sleepy Chalk Marks On Replenished Spirit Cards As If The Tools Were Somehow Beyond Dictation From The Little Women Who Really Need Drinks And Outsider Opinions From The View Of A Web On The Thing In SOUTH AFRICA As Time Goes By And LUXOMBERG Looks On With A Cheek In Its Tongue

09/01/2014 - GENERATIONS OF SARCASM

            Generations of sarcasm, propagating the Morningstar with drapes and curtains and the veils they inevitably become. The sun wears through and wears down but never actually puts on the cloth, never tests the sizes of the busts. I thought she was doing it for the bridesmaid but measuring tape tirades make for a gamey leg as her father used to say at church on Sundays when he really shouldn't have been saying anything at all. Do you know what is worst? Sorry, which is worst? You can't say German sausages because then you would be a brat and I abhor bratty behaviour in anyone but myself. My hair is all floppy and gung-ho and runs its metaphorical mouth off at any son with a shooter in his beige jeans .

            Trepidation on the opine. Your tongue is tempted towards precipitation but by and by and by and abide with me and you'll see the good critic making good out of his inner seam. Slant your back a bit and take notice, the huntsman could be coming any minute to show you his variations of ankle bracelets. The po-po got 'im and now 'e is a bugger to rung up, reet uppity 'e is nah. Skinny dipping in a bizarre landscape, that's what his conversation is like and normally he leaves too early, usually with a bespectacled girl with low self-esteem and psychotic episodes .

            Some might say that the horns blow in Canada but that has yet to be called for, too many scientific judges are committing saluki to memory, a factoid which they tend to replicate and pig out on. The pale-faced man injures the rest of us, breaking our shins and commentating on our crossbow moments and mantelpiece trophies. It just hurts that he's there and that he stalls and buzzes. Blood pasteurized by his anaemic twin, we must finish the premier with twenty percent but we know we cannot get up. It won't be enough for a lengthy chat about gutting Christmas turkeys and the impounded liberation of their feathery brows. Grandma wears her dresses for three and five but is outstanding on most of her current warranty fees .

            It's just like running for office, running for the official title, running away from officious remarks, basically running off. It's as sweet as apple pie according to the masterful recreation of that childhood film you love about childhood and the sugary coats you used to wear in abundance. You'd tool out a motorcycle in your own bedroom and then go out to stand on an standard porch to show the rest of the ions that you weren't afraid of their hurtful smoothness, that you wouldn't be bullied by their natural desires for supremacy over all that is inadequate on your front porch. Then you would back away as backers usually do, you'd back away when you really should be running. I'm here to show you how. I'm there to show you what you should have known when the baby cried out from you .

08/01/2014 - THE TECH SUPPORT

The tech support of the 15^th Century was certainly something to see, a plagiarism of a typo on a backwards computer with whirring cogs and retroactive singsong. The hours and the blasts were one in the same if not for the lining of the eyes and the concentration of chest hair and sideburns on the latter. The very tinge of the two left a sick breath behind to fill the path of all those gentlemen who spend their matrimonial months tampering with quasi-refractive physics for the sake of their tie wracks and disparate personality elements. The moon did all it could to remedy the situation but feasting on fish and chips was just to irresistible an offer considering all the outward percentages that seemed to pile up when the event horizon was crossed and the skinny chaps were sent out to the high seas for patrimonial ghastliness. The transformation would have made itself a complete cup of coffee for the fortified deep sleep. The numerical code featured the following ephemerid tongue flicks and a few new tart saliva glands just out of kindness for the big man on the toilet. The numerical code was this 011111111185320909 and we have the hairless receipts to prove it. Just give us the memo and no-one gets hurt, we promise more than enough for your children’s dangling royalty cheques, the ones that will jangle in a red flag future. As for now, we plan to wine and dine your catering staff for the delightful opportunity of popping a kipper on their heads whilst their fried chicken is still being plucked. It’s a facsimile and a shiny one at that, shiny to boot, shiny if you need to know anything about it which you so obviously don’t. I’m just sending you this as a message to taunt you, a couple of communal paragraphs for you to bash yourself around the head with. Why make much out of an impression anyway?

and ofcourse the messageboards are justlighting up andthe daily scrolldown of ourexistence is infact matter offact and deservesmedical attention fromnow until theday you diestuck in achildren’s classic, stuckin a novelabout love andtanks and strongoil plantations thatseem to goon forever anda day andyet no-one seemsto give acrap or won’twhile the numericalcode goes withoutbeing input forsome kind ofparty song that grindsand grinds andmisses the pointof no returnwhich we allhave to getused to somedaysoon as thestruggle goes valiantlyon and thereisn’t a cloudin sight forus to swatdown

THEY SAY ENOUGH. THEY SAY AS RIGHT. THEY SAY WRONG THINGS BACKWARDS. THEY SAY THAT YOU ARE WE. THEY SAY THAT THEY ARE THEY BEING THEY. THEY ARE WEAVING A SCARF. THEY ARE A COMPASS GOING ALL OVER THE PLACE FOR APPEARANCE’S SAKE ONLY. THEY ARE THE ALMIGHTY ANTIDOTE TO WE. THEY ARE THE ALMIGHTY ANTIDOTE TO WHEAT AND WEEDY WEDDING TUNES. THEY ARE THE FARCE GOING SOMEWHERE POLITE FOR A BIT. THEY ARE THE SOLDIERS TRYING TOO MUCH. THEY ARE THE SOLDIERS. THEY ARE THE LIVING DEAD. THEY ARE YOU while you’re at it.

07/01/2014 - GET STARTED, LET'S SAY

Get started, let’s say. Get ahead, go ahead and replicate the findings with a toothpick and a kettle and piece of thunder. Prepare the soundtrack, type up the backing vocals and consummate the findings in a dark room within a dark room (a photo one, that is). You know enough for an event horizon, love will do you no good in here and neither will rock ‘n’ roll. Walking away from sunny dispositions as of now. You must believe in some terrible jokes to try and pull that shit with me on a night like this. I don’t have the answers so I sure as hell have no time for more questions. The shopping assistant misses my touch but I’m done with him and his wretched pocket watch implications. The son he kept from his long-lost father was the cruellest jape at this event. You must see it before its gone.

            Guitar solo. Another guitar solo. Another fucking guitar solo to melt the face and burgle the mind in a Trafalgar Square con job – that’s how large words can say. Slap on another guitar solo, no wait, an electric guitar solo just for the sake of the press launch. I fear the university will feather down the co-optional blind spot and we’ll be forced to pan for dear life. I close my eyes but find no better ordeal to thrust my warty hand into so I’ll stick with this and hope I don’t die in quite as much drama. Revenge is more my speed and the matching caps make it all the more better. It’s you and me and a few rewinds back to the midsection. You’ve done all you can or at least every challenge along the way has led you to think. Comes with the job I’m afraid, arm-in-arm I’m afraid. I wouldn’t call it destiny or even a defensive gesture. Just conjecture. A thing with which we have to catch our misty breaths.

            Inclusion is secondary as far as protocol is concerned, it is a consolation for better actors in weaker parts. All comments have been forwarded as was the last kill to fall in the name of flagrant sacrifice. We made some tasty jams though and didn’t even wake up the neighbours whilst doing it. Bonus time, I think. I only wish I could thunk with rolling times and types with their tamed backs against the trimmed walls.

            There’s just onelast thing to say to the world before we go on and tell it allabouta the therapy session, one more waytokick it and we’ll kick it something rotten and goodness oh me oh my goodness shall we do some star fish damage justtoprove something to Everybody whilst ALWAYS FIGHTING IN THE SWEET NECTARINE. This is the winner taking her sweet time tototo call on the appropriate masses for a delicatessen night. Updating, updating,dating uppermost in my mind, you were always in the sad places Istop to corrupt. I was thinking how we are right here and not doing much, that’s true.