The
chimes of the musket fire: I wasn’t even there. I was kissing the fish tank
with my hands soaked in comedy and a fair blob of tragedy bobbed on the bridge
of my nose throughout the arduous process which was really annoying as I
remember it. The matter was sirloin though but still the bloodied cheek newly
transposed itself onto my face and it wasn’t nearly enough to pay me back for
all the dirt and grime and sandy sod I had to endure at my feet. The shells
were few and far between and my pocket watch was ticking over for Linda and her
broad array of blue dyed shirts. She told me once, join us and then proceeded
to act all shallow-like with straggly mesmerism and fetching cabaret to make it
all seem virtually presentable. The kitchen drawer suffered the most as I choked
on the goofy climes that inevitably shot across the bows and sterns of my
numerical limbs.
What’s
the license plate number? You’re bound to ask yourself and also bound to kick
yourselves when you hear how simplifying the answer is. All the pretty dears
are gone so we trotted out the slag to deliver your prize, she’s molten and
carries around beepers and calling cards and various cute apparel. They like me
for my hair, they like her for the same reason even though her’s is
significantly different. And wiry. The times are reverting back to their
Christian allegories and that doesn’t really spell much for the past links or
the blinking nipples our nuptials promised. The runes that wed our elite
organisation together made you the fluffer and the rest of us kingpins who don’t
even need fluffers because we can fluff ourselves with a blank verse poem. The
days are still as quaint as ever and don’t even muss up our suits our the suit
laces that we absolutely insist upon being the upper class and all that, wot
wot. Our masks need no chains to hold them in place, we merely have to look at
them to prioritise them. Once there’s a hierarchy, there is no chance that the
cast will return for the finale. And I’m glad.
Donna
and Murray are probably shagging the carpets in the back of the shoe shop, they
hate to be so tucked away but their coats fit nicely and the toggles are
adorned with latex whiz threads that spoon and sparkle in the contraceptive
light. The shows go on and play out with horrible trumpeting that marvels at
its own minute destructive tendencies through cognitive hours of unreasonable
powers. Work along to the beat and the masters are paid in plaid whilst the
rest of us get something of actual worth: a game plan. We’ve got it roughed out
already, let’s see what good it’ll do us to bend over backwards whilst we’re
striving primarily left just to suit the times and uniform military formation
regulation. Just pop on a cheerleader’s outfit and go slap on a good video.
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