03/01/2014 - SAND

Sand. Sand off the bow. Sand sans septic sourcing methods. Sand that isn't in the slightest bit sandy for all those sand aficionados out there. Sand that is fragrant, sand this salacious, sand that infests all documented invitation to boat parties, sand that invades cheese factories. Mother told me as we told her that the sand samples aren't quite ready for mass consumption yet because of all the water that the Irish keep bringing down. It seems like they're trying to spy on us with each ripple but then the tubs of ice cream would hold cameras better. It's all becoming lakes now, lakes of liquid stuff that doesn't easily chow down anymore than you do when a gun is pressed to your temple.

The golden-haired lassie will be a tapeworm in the next quarter precisely because her daddy told me to stay away from prior legal parties and their integral changes to the system. The machinery looks to fit the bill but the king and the khan are one in the same and they are squabbling over petty contrivances like so much salami butterflies without their price tags on or with cheaper ones in their place. Ask you, they told me, ask you about the philosophy that is usually kept behind pillars and pillows and the fat men that wrap themselves around both at inconvenient hours in the early morning. I was told to come see you on a lazy Sunday afternoon but I've just been on an expedition through the arctic desert and the soldiers I've seen out there have made me damn near lose my appetite for polite company. You taste squidgy anyway.

The hands are balls with sausages on them, these hands that is. These hands are good for one thing though, gripping compliments and crushing them down to their weakest parts. These hands are often found on the pricks of safety pins, trying to adamantly identify the towns and villages that balance precariously in the space surrounding it. As an explorer it has been asked of me to be intrepid with a whopping great book collection that is segregated from the rest of this continuum by a moderately sized toy train track. The children told me that you want my life and that will be seventy francs please. Deposited straight into each of my offshore bank accounts, s'il vous plaît. That is the cost of civic planning in a domineering market with various hyper strategies. You're just a fisherman when it comes down to it. I've seen you hook plenty of pretty English girls with you spears and business smock and I can't help but feel pity for the little ones that don't even realise that you're going to eat them whole and not even tell their parents to watch out for their friends next. You spend far too much time making sandcastles with your fingers in your ears while the rest of the planet is trying to compensate for your misgivings by bowing low.