21/02/2014 - HE DOESN'T THINK YOU'RE FAMILIAR WITH IT QUITE LIKE YOU USED TO BE

            He doesn't think you're familiar with it quite like you used to be. Those were the days of the Scouser, his treble clef t-shirts and insistence of fastidious palindromes that paled in comparison to wild vignettes and colonels living in squalor. Everybody is a critic or specialist or walking tanka verse filled with charming lane changers. You make me sad with how little you can transpose yourself onto dynamic theories and conceptual artwork, you don't even try anymore. My wife has drawn out a contract that will ultimately amend your life and turn you into a light skin black gentleman with a sailor hat. Howl for the quill and you might just get a say with the kind of patois that comes out from the chattering teeth.

            This is turning out to be a right old Dickensian classic with adjustable spout and hammerhead tuning fork both packed tightly into volume 1 of the series. Yes, there is going to be a series because there is enough interest going around and money doesn't just grow on trees you know. That's just our back hair. Such smart teeth, cuddly canines and the works. We might just replace it all with homely dentures.

            God loves claps and is eyelid flutters and doesn't take no mulch from any sucker with a four-inch partition. The blasphemy is inherent in all his creatures, they just want to play the zombie game and truck out of town whilst the dodge is good and there are plenty of harebrained schemes going around in submarine vessels. The inky tanker is floating upwards of the bubble breach and will just contaminate everything on the shoreline if you don't ascend faster to blow it to Kingdom Come. That place again for a dirty weekend and perhaps a flutter on the poker table. Not like Our Lord of film music.

            To say otherwise is just plain rude and plain rudeness is exactly like vanilla ice cream, sweet but bland if left on its own without suitable accompaniment on the four string quartet of bowls. As far as I can twang it, the same ahs been said for every generation following from the 60's, we're just not happening in a righteous enough way. This is the high five and we've forgotten all about it because the soapbox is launching into its own elaborate series of tirades. Multicolour, I hear, or maybe just tricolour. Feel the flag waving in the name of ingratiating taxi drivers.

            Thinking and rapping are interchangeable in this oaken plateau of rich continental dressers and muesli picker tomahawks. The work just depersonalises with the flick of a moustache or the whomp of a brandished beard in the swamp. The war is chowing down and the surly pop hits are rocking out of sequence with the rest of governable society. The Saviour cometh with free hand jobs for everyone who thinks it distasteful. He's a merry old soul and a pot pie under each lascivious armpit. Blessed are the claps and the gold medals they atchoo.