07/06/2013 - COUNTRY MUSIC

Country music plays quietly and the birds’ laughter feels so clear and close. All reporting the same thing like something out of ten horror shows, maybe more. I can’t help but notice Jared in California as he spends time with his precocious son. Let’s see him go to dinner with a lovely wife and a proud meat-eater. Such a derogatory interview. She must resemble an Albino of some high standing.

It’s time for him to become a doctor, an opportune minute to dread and fire lasers at. If your flesh is perfection itself then why allow the privileges? Suits are good enough for wearing in and running rampant, they can even clear the throat with simultaneous montage salutes. Anyone can leap with guns, only Jared can bowl all forty over without throwing sacks over simpering bridges. Abominations each go slack. Abominations call you back every time.

We have to stop the populations reaching their Chinese destination, affording the loss of countless slaves. They’re using humans for training purposes, their vocal chords have something of the divine about them. It’s really rather chemical and sweet in its own way, like oxygen evasion tactics. Each one has a breath in their head, trapped somewhere between the chaos and the surrounding ears. Release sights are perhaps the bravest screams of them all, little pillows of regretful leaders. Could anyone be so doubtful? Homo sapiens showing off again? Cor! It’s the sort of thing that saves the world in twenty hours and fourteen seconds, ignoring minutes mostly because who needs them? This is them being deadly serious.

Punishment is a wardrobe filled with gaudy architecture and, because it is fantastically self-involved, the confederacy can’t scan for debris suggesting miniature trouble spots. Like kisses and finished worlds. Lesser creatures go off to be limiting factors. Throttle them before they cleanse our true volcanic kind. It’s chaos every time a display cabinet shackles hard-ons and bells going west. Lightning makes him into such a lesser creature.

It doesn’t take him long to realise that laughing at awkward thong connotations is not a nice way to get some whey back into our whale song, it adds co-ordination to recorded booster circuits. It’s a psychiatrist’s attempt at holding still. It’s the crackling of a dervish in classic practicality, drowned out by the thunderous lozenge, dunked under by beautiful information. The dangerous bit is talking the psychiatrist down whilst they are still strong and gelatinous.

Jared promises to never again cast a web down the winner’s amateur nodule. Oh yes, he’ll say. Oh yes I am going straight into the fable’s command. It’s easy to mentally reprogram the atmospheric quiver; you just need a pencil and three thousand curt phases of willpower. So many ways to go out of the way like along the surface, over the spinning plates and down breeze. His ear is teaching cabaret to the little ones with a gusto rarely seen by pollution. They said it’s good for the blemishes but then he never listened well enough.

06/06/2013 - OBSIDIAN KNIGHTS

                Obsidian Knights require Quantum Macbeth. Looking for untraceable squadrons of unholy patchwork men. GSOH and beddable tranquillity as the hoop cranes whistle theme tunes necessary to Nicholas in particular. Pardon the uneven spread, the shadow of a cotton bud has been hunting down the best quilts in the cupboard. Some might say it's a crusade OMFG. Saris all around, for everybody except the gargantuan witness and his queer sensitivity to certain cottons. The blade looks good to Nicholas but then he is somehow related to both Erasmus and Neil and even Papa, provided he wears his clay hat indoors. Out of all the Obsidian Knights, Nicholas was voted the most likely to succeed in seedless grape devouring. They didn't give him a sword for PR reasons. Otherwise there was absolutely nothing going on in the undergrowth.

            There are pupae who don't bother His Lordship. Just a pinch of damage and he will become the strongest multiple-faced figurehead in every feasible program since the reboot of the Chop Suey Encyclopaedia. Where's Mummy's hugs? Could it be in fact heedless of tethers? Cha-cha seems to provide the closest things to answers in our delectable age. It's almost like the vegetation doesn't matter anymore. A good chum never browns the glacier of good conversation, not while there are sharks and weasels and various other Irish paraphernalia about. There are beers to be chugged and night time to be worshipped. The spheres agree and occasionally endeavour to amaze. I see bergs crafting egocentric ambition into the crevice of enjoyment, I see them make waves out of faltering pudding cups. The scourge is loose and kicking caboose. Beware his merciless egg timer, the eager replacement of his potpourri scythe. It makes for a so-so weekend, a tertiary scion to the ticket hanger. We're online in case you didn't notice from the way we hung out our laundry.

            We of the renowned and undersigned are going out of our way to become a beeping creepy mindset that doesn't just spasm on command, that doesn't accept and exceed our current status. When you're a thousand individuals the last thing you want is to find Godhood in a tongue scraping. There's sheet ice everywhere in this neighbourhood, you can't do the shuffle for all the sexism, all the indeed. At the end of the day who doesn't want to be dominated by a computer slug, a proactive macro hilt for the disembodied foot warmer. To be in such a state would be bliss, a stupendous grenade in the heart of the language of the church. All these churchgoers would rather not see a sermon performed by a thing that ticks, they presume that it's spiteful and throw me out of a window. It really is getting rather tiresome, especially for those of us still waiting within the next nest. How the centuries bop along with palmed weaponry. It's like fuzz in the blues or love in the biscuit jar. Can we go into the can again? There's away.

05/06/2013 - THERE WAS A SENSITIVITY

There was a sensitivity that lied between us, something to do with the unscrupulous lid and all of its more scientific faculties. There was a place and a time and bit to feed on as the chain span into vitrified patterns of logic, babbling with every shunt of the truck. There was a mind melting into the wilderness, a cognizance that shook the mildew off of my favourite poet. The women were of course ready and the sunlight that splattered between them began a vigil for the colour yellow, a stand-up affair that hesitated every fifty minutes or so. I said sorry and that was all in the garish future. It was a second edition. Can you not see in the madness of the clamped jawbone? The Kurdish Boulevard either?

            This is the old avenue, the old backtrack. Keep walking one hundred and eighty eight miles and cross over to the right hand side. It will pay off like a romantic park bench headed for the chipper. Excuse my dalliance with saleable figures, the waltz is yet to turn up my flagrant collar. This is the way with chess games, the dire need to distract oneself rips apart the trumpets with friendly old waylays filled with creatures born of chicken soup. The ice cream vendor is choking the office with its pennywise diaphragm. I'll be casting away shortly so keep me informed of any unanticipated updates, dear ant people. There will be service tips on the side if you're lucky with the cards.

            It's going to be a prosaic ballistics reports, I can tell you now. There will be glistening platitudes about squatter's rights, chewable chocolate pans, vibrant hand holding and all round good-natured hooliganism. It's an attractive outcome by her standards, her incredibly low and dribbling standards. Backwards compatible mind reading is the answer this afternoon. And for midnight, who can say? The chillers will probably continue to vie for virtuosity, wag their tongues like Ptolemy did in his picturesque getaway scenes. The operation won't just conduct itself as the saying goes. It's an album crammed full of aboriginal jetsetters and spoilt engine parts. That's the way to creep around that smirking elephantine breakfast party.

            Books and books and books and books and because of books we go to books and wear down those books and become those books in speckled party dresses. Ringing out with leisure, draining the due hyphenations. It's a quality that is often niggled.

            IT'S TIME TO BE FORBIDDEN! Have me in your tested reflexes, in your valid vial of talking thunderstorms. Twenty hours to go if you lose the lot in that dumpster over there, the one we used to call  a skip or an EEK. Will you try the convenience of air? Can you let your mother know you're trying it as well? She has a powerful ire and won't do no irking for no goddamn learning mentor folk. Sheet. It's a low-down form of support, not the kind of webbing you'd want for your kin.

04/06/2013 - CAN'T THINK

            Can't think or stroke the nightmares into marketplace saleability. It's difficult to be a difficulty, problematic to be an automatic machine gun of liberated humour. Can't be aged 46 either, it causes a direct line to the back of my hookah pipe  and I'm too tired these days to let it activate with a click of my hip. Fingers are burning and bulging with chemical energy, singing songwriters into fibula seismology. It's a lonely life to be an existent smiley fool with yellowing skin. I'm falling apart leaf by leaf because of the sun dial and all of its oxidised coal mining missions.

            You live for the moment when I get better and direct swans into party-based Reich systems, Fascism is the one fad I never really tried. Concordantly I'll take my feathery biro and rap it a few times against the brickwork of your chin, just in case it does something rotten and unthinkable like leave you on the wayside or misdirect a turnpike through insidious magic. I am exiting through cordite and the red skin is sown into the back of my eyelids, hence the slithering sound whenever I question your heresiarch about pub quizzes. It doesn't take much to soil a decent lady these days, you just pat her on the pass with your pickled penis and then kick her out of a conveniently orchestrated door. The curt response on your jacket is spectacle enough, thank you so very much. I'm going the bonkers way round just to jut the playing field a few times over. It is working, it's working a treat on gays and box office murderers. I've even met a few of each but none of them can shake my hand because I'm ethereal and therefore don't wear culpable gloves. That's anti-Semitism if you do the washing up whilst your back's still turned away. Some call it an art form. I call it worthy.

            Can't hear a damn thing either, whenever it yawns it feels like I'm undergoing a long hard transformation into a high horse comedian. If I stop burping the water bowl will runneth over and my puppy talk will ultimately be for naught. I'm trying my best to channel the dire stems but it didn't really work the first time. Dime a dozen, that's what they say about the specialist swatches and currently I'm inclined to agree. Give me a cold stingy surface any day, give me freaks for company inside a spherical continent, disregard me before I say anything to hurt or harm you beyond the necessary quota. Mother always said treat your people with kindness and they will go on to drive a knife pie between you and yourdilated pupils. In an ideal world, they'd try to convince me that I'm a devil begotten aardvark and therefore not worthy the ochre or the psyche power outage. This is where I end the video with a crash and a game of hoop la. That was the old me, the new me just wants to castrate  the betwixt.

03/06/2013 - THE VOTE FOR PROTON

            The vote for a proton was seconded and thirdly I doused the occupant with firewater. It was for her own good, she hadn't brought a risk with her, silly thing. They're all chimps when you get down to it, the plebs and the children alike. The only way to thrust a point home is to fix it to the underside of their skull and watch as it malfunctions into a bone shape. It's good for frisking airline pilots and shooting hostesses round the back of a regulation basketball hoop. Ire makes for a proud proclamation in the shrewd recesses of my Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. It helps when I'm trapped within the confines of a football game or some such sporty travesty. Wherever I go, I wish I was at the opera.

            Ah, the opera! The selective hearing, the upturned legs, the wanderer's recovery! Ah! Opera! It makes me so randy, the only thing that gets me up these days. Such a shame I don't preserve my parent's Gentile circular nature. I said merry goodbye to them on the yacht ride over and that was that as far as I'm concerned. Call me an oven mitt but that was the last time I wanted to see the suckers, to perceive the cuddly reality. It does very little to follow the same jolly old tracks all of your life, that way doth not the professorship lie.   

 

Giving lip to strangers is the only true way to remain tiresome in a secular society. The drawbridge economy is on the take, pointing wherever the trolls can't spell or trickle down. Of course, the culture is turning particularly Slavic and that's not a fine way to book a holiday. There, that was your doing. The train ride leaves me agog with the possibilities. How could you possibly fuck this all up again? It sickens the whip and all that. Berries are demanding that chopping boards enter various different orbits just in case you screw the pooch again. Curl the tail.

You have twenty two seconds to achieve the entire provisional score. It's striking like a howl in a class war that time forgot. I blame the daredevils in our yuppie theme park experience, they've been doing a damn fine job so damn fine that very few Finnish bounty hunters are willing to climb out of the works. It's a rutting clock headed eastward from my shattered cheekbone. It maximises the exhaustion to nutcase proportions. They told me to sit down and behave but I won't, I'll jump over the hurdle and make a tractor of our shared past events. The pucks each fall forward in kind, tumble with quintessential glee. Contrary to popular belief, there are suitable qualifications.

I am institutionalised by comparison, by proxy. Erasmus was always the charismatic windsock, I was never up to his often hassled standards. And his mother, oh dear! Be thankful that such women are not frequently fortunate. Be wary of their back ends, their terrible back ends. Beehive.

02/06/2013 - HE SELLS WINDOWS

                He sells windows as he murders the grove. They say that his entire character is based on an incident featuring the United Nation's catering service, that by fleeing the gentle timber he became a fierce bottlenose atrocity. He grew his shoulders out and pretended to be blind so that sexual pessimists would spite him with their hard long stares. He always did this while running off the edge of leaves. His dialect comes from a strange woman's lust, her captors spared her and sent her into his casualty collection. The bells rang out that day and the shockwaves almost knocked his oft-forsaken noggin off.

                Let the Earth bring forth the rich, he regularly says at motivational speaker training session. Let the pastrami fizzle away into water closet nymphomania! Let us all be so rampant as the stag's moment! So many putrid excuses! Ambiguous and all!

                The reply is commonly, Go get your own flavour! Yeah, that means you, you surplus colon! Pass on while the Feng Shui is still blossoming fangs from its curtain rail! Huzzah!

                It's always good to hear that the shortage reveres in his mere presence in the mine. It makes one lonesome to clash with various opinions and strong men. Many women are wearing down their lederhosen just to get to him and his unquenchable aftershave, baby! Or should that be stricken from the records for its shameless fervour? The rocks are actually going to line up with his feet, they'd kill just about anyone else randomly. Children perform this with chid, all through the auditions. Never love again, he said whilst watching it all from the rafters, never once in Arkansas again.

                This kind of thing always happened when he lied to his momma. She was a balding dead termite centurion and therefore swallowed up the entirety of his cognitive faculties. This is a passing by a mute's standard, a shooting by his. Energy is how he did things, energy is how he always did things underneath the troubled desk. Look upon his visage from the parental guidance ridge, the children were taught. You'll enjoy most of it, those damn darning teachers would mutter in their dirty cardigan slippers. Hellish wires escalated from the eighteen seventy five dark-skinned notebooks. There goes the trouble again, he thought in a thick Scottish accent as he held down the pen. He did all he could through the touching and breathing years, the scattering of mentors was his own gun metal opportunity. All one could do was marvel at the poles.

                Did you witness the fissure's longing? He witnessed the fissure's pretence as if it were a mime act performed verbatim. The sea recurs. The listener came. The bleak prophecy came out through mortal remains. He had a poet for a heart, an awareness that moved like a stiffening bendy straw. That's a French boudoir for you, that's a windmill blemish. He suckled from the very foodstuff of Heracles, of Hecate and of all the other miserable sand dune agendas.  

01/06/2013 - IF YOU'RE A DIVA

                If you're a diva then grant the sideline in case of mutual disaster areas merging into a parallax. Surreptitiously tell that certain someone to shove the vertical axis up their perpendicular sunshine holder. She'll hold your hand all the way despite all the first rate cussing she'll lash out matter-of-factly. There was certainly a last time, off Gate 3. Coming back down is the real bitch, the trickster's southpaw adventure.  And we never saw him again. And we never slapped his wife either for litigable reasons. It appears that life is a non-profit radioactive stench monger, the rare sort that doesn't care to be disagreed with. Helixes make for fine coffee machines in its shadowy wake-up call. Don't ever be a prince within its sight, not unless you want to see eleven thousand angels crap their essence into tuberculosis cups. Trust me, not a sight for sore eyes in this day and month.

                Whatever happened to Project Cactus? Was it cancelled because of its atypical dress sense? Was it shunned for not draping haggard matriarchs all over its trilby? Was it shunned because it could not stand the humour of certain haemophilic? They say there is a howl to be heard just off the junction out towards its home beacon. They say it speaks of scarecrow lambasting and epithalamium scams. It really does turn the churning stomach into something without any acidic factor whatsoever. Then again this is the old system we're talking about here, there were ration books for every little pointless detail. Dental offices were much more opaque and filled with aquarium hats. They said the traffic piled up and piped down in front of the gaping maw of knighthood there. They said there'll be snow in the summertime and liars in the vestry. This room was made for stripping, not entrenching desperate misanthropy. Wear your own damn hat if so absolutely inclined.

                Either way don't download this Tao, it's filled with temporal fastidiousness and all sorts of liquorice loss. Midwifery has lost all sense of vocation there, it has become an excuse to wear blue clothing with white frilly bits sticking out of the top and sides. The caps are no longer in play but that decision was made long before the big bite down. Tunics that were eyesores and crotchety grandstands are all that's left of the sites to rattle around. Tragedy comes in limpid chunks of gooey iris. Promise me you'll never seek out the jabberwocky perfume, promise the Gods even but only when they're looking in the right fucking direction for once. Yeah, cloud people, I'm chatting about you! Get your damn ears on for once in the inept hyphenations you call stages of immortality. I am known for my half-brothers and their insistence on daydreaming in the middle of inch tape. Foxes clamber out of the inception to jump on and latch themselves to my airy-fairy beatitude.

                Trust me when I say I am a good man. Trust me when I declare the renewal of Project Cactus. Long may it supersede.