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.