28/06/2014 - WORK YOURSELF UP TO A HIGHER STANDARD

Work yourself up to a higher standard, this may be the end of English Banter but you are our confidence reborn with wings and wingnuts on those wings because of tax evasion results. The time is ripe with running off and tearing down kettle drums from their pitiful stands because the end of the game is up and the classes for independence are low. I have jousted with the dictionary for as long and far as a Neanderthal dare with his trousers on and his best authors by his side to cheer him on and chuck him under the chin for extra support. I am passing out and zones won’t stop me or my giant set of bat talons that pick up sonar for hot women and cool men, one as blooded as the other whether you’re a fan of that sort of television or not. Which your not so cool. Or hot.

Listen for as long as the doorman will let you and heed the verbs and not so much the nouns used: TIME IS TRUANCY AS LONG AS YOU’RE RELATING TO THE BIRDS AND THEIR BEES. The giant stacks of things that won’t load and especially so in the mercurial mercy of a Vicar’s Hospital food chunks. This is the version that good little monkeys remember because the piano solo is just so mind-melding, so reticent and filled with New Zealand rock riffs and the claps they wrap up under and in between. Ebb and flow with the film show but be prepared to hear a young tomboy calling you out onto the street to show you her wares without irony or seduction. She’s popping gum and greasing your skunk-ass wizardry cos she got a n angle to play and with vigour.

So chill out in the borogroves. Others kick back in the space between carpet and earth on market day. I’ve been out the whole way and the mast is still stuck with staying in bed, it’s that depressed, that helpless in its babyish quandary. Everyone in the brawl knows what the lawyers pass for tears while there’s a here filled with children begging on the street for the good of the Crumpet and its remarkable sense of utopia (misguided). What is this? Madness in the most policed crap trip possible? This swarm of humanity knows exactly what you’re peddling and wants to nibble at a piece just so you’ll make a job for yourself cleaning up. Anti-perspirant everywhere, like a girl stood beside the situation. In the absence of a victim, the smelly thief may tell the white writer where to hang his wire coat. The horns open into a saltine just to dazzle you and your precious hair care.

A crime can’t say that cannot is not without horrible irony twisting like a mop head in wicked soup filled with untrustworthy bones and truancy without measure or remorse. I’m not afraid to hang signs all over the door; this is my hind, this my quarters closing because of the filthy manger.