20/04/2014 - AND SO THE HARVEST HELPS ITSELF

And so the harvest helps itself to its runt of litters and the little acceptance speeches strewn about the battlefield with filed fingernails. They really didn’t wait too long for doctor’s care, they warned and waned and probably paid off a few debts along the way. Ah, mercy! Ho, police! Give way to the normal while the paraprax is away and tying its shoelaces for bootlaces and fresh beer bottles. They all await for innumeracy to fall prostrate in the trap and slate itself up to experience. Give back to life and the thief will take you for all you’ve got and the stoop that you stand on to make assurances and postulate hypothetical neuroses.

Perish the thought in flame and dry out the example for Peppier Macho and his inability to hold a long, proud note in the face of an augmented orchestra. Must we now begin to doubt the tenacity of coasters on coffee tables? Is the world really so lost? And what of heaven? We rest in cob pipes and the chin-scratching stars that smoke them with reverence and upload the feed on their websites. All those thoughts flying for the sake of the trolls and their slammed dunks. Must I know begin to monitor the musket fire whilst my forearm is trembling in hellish necromancy? Grant someone else their life for their livelihood, I want and desire a nap of black oil. Dream the dream as my mother used to say but not to me, to my father and his fleet of reindeer. The labour camps devoured his patience like a swift, sharp back of the hand.

It’s been a while since anyone shackled the monkeys to the seaside rocks and I think it’s about time. Not because I’m some sort of sadist, it’s what’s good for them; they don’t listen to anyone, they just trespass and act morose in front of maudlin people just to see what the experimentation will affect. So not too nice if you’d pardon me saying.

            Quite frankly the generation has seen enough of performances, nerve-racking and clamorous. The generation wants to bring up the harvest again, wants to charm the moon into rotating on its axis for a bit just to show the big blue marble how it should be done. Thousands upon thousands of automata would show up for that show and shoe in a few casual remarks about polite repeats that start in winks and end in blinks. The world is falling in half and the maker bag becomes you with silken patchwork and gears that grind and erase most grungy forms of radiation. At least the girls are sexually voracious, at least these girls are. The lease is up for the rest of mankind, it was written in the sponge and the brackish water. Man made bubbles so that he might disturb the water distribution and have something to pop with but a touch. The arms of his proposed father are about to enfold him tenfold. Gory.