Getting
started with the sun in the palm of your tools, in the raise of the damaged, in
lieu of an Oxbridge scholarship. Somebody knew someone was going somewhere with
something and somehow without something else. We ain’t leaving this room till
we find out the medical implications for the magnolia. The chopping of wood
seems to sooth the coverage of usury and slurping slumber of a thousand tiny
furry things that thrust their tusks into roulette tables as some sort of
fashion statement. I swore off that stuff like wire and leverage of visitation
that helps the dreamer get home before his alcoholic impressionism set in. Go
hang your dress up for future documentation and grab your furthermore for the
purse and do try to tip the stones as you cross them. It hurts to lose me, that’s
what I want you to remember in this coldest of momentary lapses in judgement
and ownership.
The
broom handles are piling up against the capsized manna with blameworthy console
and sexy legends that cruise around the by-lines and retread ground. We’re just
used to being good at better things and not these trump card ballads of dreary
hurt and baldy death. On my mirth I will live with buddy mentality and
spruced-up physicality. This thing comes here to test us like the ringing of
YES and the fixed point of argument. Kicking and pinning and sedation will tell
‘em the truth with hammers and dismal jester’s running self-control seminars.
We can’t know unknowable events without plopping around the chef hats and the
straitjackets that are spotted like Dalmatians with flipped switches and
subsequent relief. Disappointment floods in with florets of wine flutes and
programme directors from THE BIRTHDAY GANG.
Retort.
Back-Shift. Go away. Back-Shift. Live. Back-Shift. Float. Four Feet Up.
Vengeance. Recipients. Stay tuned. Back-Shift. Broadcast. Wait. Goodnight. Wait
again. Speak up. Back-Shift. Goodnight.
The
dots are in the vans that ski with utilitarian welcome and wide open arms that
do cool things with flickering fingers and flavoursome proverbs that don’t ski,
under no obligation whatsoever. As we dare to yearn, as we darn to eat four the
sake of young people everywhere, we become like an Almost-God with creampuff
pies in ceremonial robes and turkey legs showing faceless responsibility and
the secret recordings that are made for blackmail purposes. The sea life will
fare thee well provided you create disposition with manifold exposition. That
is the legendary placation we make to people who describe it as vacation
instead of holiday. The fruity footfall passes with sheriff twinkles and
nosegay wipes.
After-effects
and aft and beck and call and stern all pile up in a row of shelf-dwellers with
irate hand gestures and cruel tandem. Whosoever shall be found to be beside me
shall be found guilty of rocking their socks off so why don’t you just pick up
that bloody racket and dare to dribble your reams of self-pain and soul
sorry-ing. Out of the band, master mate, out of the band and write.
No comments:
Post a Comment