12/04/2014 - OATH ON A PALM TREE

Oath on a palm tree said to me: DON’T TELL NO MORE LIES.

Oath tree on a palm said to me: DO NOT TELL ANYMORE PEOPLE.

On my oath, the tree said: PALM THE LIARS, PALM THE PEOPLE.

Said oath to me via palm: AWAY WITH TREES ALTOGETHER.

 

And so began the great warming, the children let out their cupboards of white hair and set the chargers to reheat with the hope of enclosing an afterword from the reader of the pluperfect tensile strength. The polka grind goes on in the cold light of day and the coldest part of that light actually bounces along to the beat as it wears its footprints into the carpets of several lonely farmers. The womenfolk make the victims ledgers and arrange for homespun lodging in haunted creeks. Curtains flutter all around the neighbourhood at the very reconsideration of green on the flag, the neighbourhood flag but not the national one. The national one isn’t really considered a flag anymore because it’s a sigil for pretentious doorbells. Implied meaning shouldn’t ever be so fanciful, let alone start a boy band with but a mere thought. Shotguns blaze and the gospel can be heard in the rests between thudding beats. The shells ratatatat as they ricochet off of the tropical furniture. This is the wicker that made the fandango look dated, this is the wicker that eclipsed beards for plug sockets. As always, the chap with the bunged-up nasal passage is lining his moat with slippery concrete blocks because he really hates us for getting here so late and to the point. We don’t mean to beat around the bush and he doesn’t like it because apparently it’s unseemly to take people unawares like that. Our line manager wants to see more pictures of him so he can visualise the stamps it will inevitably appear on. Vinnie has time for anything.

 

VINNIE CARES THAT: tasking retrospectives takes an age.

VINNIE SCARES THAT: kindly old hag with the buck teeth for being so crass.

CARESS VINNIE: he has the kind of laser surgery we couldn’t even dream of.

VINNIE CARES NOT ABOUT: the dial-up tone on the long country road.

 

You have got two. You have gathered these two and planted their subsequent cuttings straight into the bedrock and now it’s time for that play date you’ve organised for the sick Chinese Dragon that eats all your rigatoni. The Worcester sauce is spilled right over the wrinkled furniture, the tropic furniture that hasn’t been folded up yet into burnt disposables, the palm tree’s alert neighbourhood watch. This tree has it in for you because of the last time that we crossed the farmer’s land without sufficient painting skill; we had to bargain with our barley rations. We lost our wisdom teeth on the breakout away. As you always so sweetly put it, we are royally praised for the games we wasted with commentaries of the scientific developments of yesteryear’s uglier twin. You have got two. Vinnie the palm tree, four.