And
this is all very nearly the end. I’m not joking, I’m incorporating this message
to you, dear audience of one, through another blahdeblah ensemble. I’m heading
out, off to the bridge, off to anywhere else and you’ll have to deal with a
severe lack of nonsense in your daily routine. Sorry but this is just the right
thing to do, my hands are getting tired and the words are losing tact. And
lightness. The lightness is received by so few budding ears and I can’t have it
all reverting back to me in my novel hovel. So this is my warning/goodbye,
hence the coherence. Please allow me to absolutely lose that within the next
picosecond. Artistically.
Everyone in the clouds has a
day of STD except for the roadworks operator. He’s an orchestrator but
surprisingly not that big a fan of opera. He’s more of an operant conditioning
guy, he wants to entertain your remote synapses with the very conception of a
tissue being stuffed inside the drawers and many dust mites of your mind. This
is the train on a trail with its tracks scattering around for residual food
after it has passed, that was the wreckage of the rec room that flew over your
heads. Just flew, not was burst. Leave behind footnotes for the poor and
sweet-faced but don’t ever expect them to have a jovial attitude towards
imperfect whiteness. Some might say enough is enough but I say that telling is
only half the realisation and not even the smarter half. Brian has Erasmus in
his sights and will pee out through the gawky moments of a child actor caught
in a jeep’s headlights. The oldest and grainiest trick in the book,
Winsome. Slipstitch. Keyring. Some glow of green facing
off with the red while violet and fuchsia turn theinternet into a game show
filled with foiled bespectacled fellows and their undeniable facial hair. We
call it an incredulity down in these here constituencies, we’re big on the
drawl but never carry pistols just in case tourists come along and get the
wrong idea about the words on the page and how we’ve shuffled them about with
the whirring of our spit and tacit nature of our dry mouths. Why should I dive away
from your perfect perfume counter, weird New Zealand
Aortal subtext – jet streams
of streamers and Apple pies and true crime according to film and television it
seems now, it seems now that the boardwalk has lost its lasting appeal, it’s
appendectomy scars are reaching for somebody that looks like something you
threw up last night after your bender and all the blue lights that supposedly
stunned you into finding your way home without a bed knob or umbrella. Always
greased-up, never closeted for traffic parties. Go, they’re super cool
actually/
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