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.