15/06/2014 - ZERO TOLERANCE OF THE BODY INSPECTOR

Zero tolerance of the body inspector, zero is what she said. She channelled the numbers, crunched them against her steely knee and intimated the blood everywhere. He told us to redirect her phone calls through to the baggage counsel in case she has a trepidation we haven’t foreseen or rather foresworn, am I right? Am I right? Reaction is the treaties of this nation, indefatigable reaction towards the dwarf community up in their long gangly arms just show us who’s boss finally, boss of the pen factory that is. The ink well is now a spillage and the artists will spill on their own account because artists are artistes and lack artisan élan to operate on a proper transmutation level. They’re constantly advising us to look into our voices while she is beginning to allow thick patience onto the parking lot of her memory. It’s sinking in like wet concrete on the bodies of several sweaty chaps and their capsized gowns.

            Shave a few times and you deserve a break and a five gun salute while your back is turned so that we don’t have to leave off ceremony until the bearded general says so. He enjoys drinking his gin, thinking of her and her judgement and her absolute correctness in the face of abject sexism in the racist workplace. Thankfully not everyone contributes to the mess outside of allowing it to tickle them under their chin. I like to think I’m a part of this number but then I am opaque and that’s just one end of the spectrum. Whether or not you believe that opaque politics is real then you’ll like me and the way that I double-crossed when the tip is hot and true on the kitchenette weighing scales that fill up four quarters of my flotation subjunctive. Some women want the Somme, others prefer the day that you get off their case about being in an interview with a moonbeam at one time. Lies and party favours, my friend, they’ll get you in the end and decry you like the hunter they whored you out as.

            But what are friends really? What can friends do except create a solipsistic environment crammed full of brochure literature and sleepy dodging of fleas and ticks depending on where they set up camp on the carpet. The lab have destination paradox fleas, these nibble away until you get to a specific point in space and time and that is absolutely key to absolutely everything. She’s involved in this somewhere but we don’t bother ourselves so much with what she does or does not appreciate to know. Rowdy car journeys fill the skies with papier-mâché greetings and fallen tissues from the leaf fact that he was way too solipsistic to make up a recovery position for the nest egg. Oh dear, looks like we’re all jellyfish now, we’re all faking out with red sauce. Oh dear, we’re our own flash and bang, our own little scrumptious gobble of Godliness. Mine tastes Greek but that could be reasoned out.