14/04/2014 - YOU'VE PACKED FOR THE ARMCHAIR OLYMPICS

You’ve packed for the armchair Olympics, you’ve packed the armchair accoutrements and you’ve tied down the mannerisms that will necessarily change you into the sort of woman that people compare to Autumn. You’re all set.

The rest of the trip awaits you with minor fluctuations of internet connection and fireside arguments with the doodles of lover’s past. All the glass has already been blown and now its time to simmer down and hike up that hitch before the flowerbeds lay claim to your centralised dominance. You’re going to ascribe importance to bendy straws while the dogs are looking with their ears pricked up, you just know it. You have a storeroom cupboard to strike up for miniscule minutes but you’re going to climb inside the womb metaphor instead whilst listening to heavy folk metal crunching sounds for moral support. This way for the glen. That way for the terrible movie list – 48 miles and run around with rum punch.

Download the timeout, eat the screensaver and key in the trial and tries before rugby seizes the seeing with blue cracks and unfazed zaps of a foreman’s foreskin. Momentary naps for you, one and all. Line up the shot, click the rank and watch the blossom retcon your phantom limb into the back of your specious ligament. Food shortages like glasses on bifocal noses. Sex for breakfast. Commemorative keychain. About ten minutes to evacuate your neck cricks, good time to blaspheme. Make good in your promises to raise the dead without exemption and you will receive that sense of ownership your maternal grandmother left you without. She didn’t have the right teeth in anyway and the cottaging happened regardless.

Blackboards swapped for petticoats. Hat racks traded in for anatomical etchings. All grey as the greyest Munich day. Bookmark it for closure and all future closed-hand magic shows.

As often as I like, you repeat to yourself, as often as I like. Your knife and your fork are in either hand and the microwaves has done with you. It’s a tragic overcome, a village oven glove clawing through your impatient travels. The sample on the CD is the hunch in your own personified pizzicato chords. The gun makes a start for the egg, a simile is burgeoned in your old dog’s bed. The day is won, the night is slaved, the old dog is only just waking up to his tail between his teeth. How utterly, very rubbish a sight for him.

You traipse along your own impersonated trip and you’ll keep thinking of all the wicker you see around you, in the wire fences, around the bollocks of the men who you lay with. Trees need soil for its long complexity and sore nutrients. You are on the rise, cheap and confidently trampling the permeation of whore and slag culture. You can see immediately, the colour and the ambience that results in diffuse finality. Your body lies further down the stream, holding the excess back for a wholly serious amount of catchments.