08/10/2013 - I AM THE PRICE OF TOMFOOLERY

            I am the price of tomfoolery in the naked lamplight! Behold this crest! I kneaded it, proved it with sour dough! I suppose that makes a racist to thesaurus users but then they can't hold words in their head so who am I to play the pup for them? I grind my teeth, don't you know? I ground them down to a thin, wavering paste of humanist emotion. It's good to see my chomp gone, it was eyeballing me for too long and without reserve. There's  a protozoa of sardine cynicism over there, it kind of looks a bit like a sperm with its ears pricked up and its libido inhibited. I think I might've seen it locked away in one of these cupboards, the ones to your left if you look just behind you. I'm sure I wasn't the one to put it in there so it must've been one of my essays.
            You could find it cool again, in its shiny bikini and its terrible singing voice. You could wrap it up with a horror novel and it would still remain a dangerous instrument of acute torture. This is a box and it goes on for yards and yards without once looking or even seeming heavy. The beady-eyed guvnor has switched from Petrified English to Non-consummate Religious Babble. I think there was something on the telly about the rapture but I prefer to call it Judgement Day Has Its Upsides Too. Like upside your head, you cardiac ear blamer. There are so many buttons and I have to be the one who picks yours, how lucky am I, eh? You made a fine point but I'm not so passive aggressive as your wet nurse would like you to think. I'm a gentle poet who sleeps whenever his rage monster comes out and gobbles up all the white space on a page. Yum, scrummy.
            This was a very nice bar once, you know. All kinds of eye-patched individuals came in to share a tanker with sexy ladies in wheelchairs and talk a scrummy storm into folding into a simple and unassuming bed for the night. The protozoa has its brothers in that bar, or at least it did before they pulped the call sign and reduced the number of patrons. Now it's just one of those places you look inside and think what a monumental shithole. It's like a bomb's gone off in there and by gone off I mean is currently stinking the place out because it should've already blown by now but hasn't. What the fudge will happen to the flipping ploppers when my curtain call comes? The bar will close and all the hearty features will slip into my pocket and come streaming back out again with every unique breath that I choose to take. It's like I twist around and the loaded language does something to the back of my head to make it warm and sticky. Never trust the bastard with a hand cannon.

07/10/2013 - SCHAUDENFREUDE IS BETTER WITH POPCORN

Schaudenfreude is better with popcorn. Ripple. Ripple. Smatter. Thank you for coming to my robust party involving the psychic ditz, especially considering you made all furious and beautiful. You walked into my life and now it’s meaningful in a way that makes my paediatrician so happy and spoon fed. Please don’t retard me with finger foods and adolescent idolatry. Go off and buy more stuff while I’m safe in returned jealousy. That’s the grey hairs and spandex speaking, you just don’t understand. God damn the down payments with a loosely-fitted tie. You have one minute to call me sweetie and then I get going with her money. Your secret is safe behind my Ramadan shield casing.

The bowl of ice cream goes off in its slinky black dressing gown to retrieve the bin from the hypodermic needles of perfect biters. It’s mobile, socially mobile and going simultaneously along the ziggurat. And behold, the co-worker! He means something! I can assure you that provided you keep this under your respective years and all the speckled booze that lies beneath and between. My foreclosure is clucking and the stove is all over the dead person’s navel. It was you who did this to the Pogo Motherfucker; it was you with all the steering wheels and lightning reflexive remonstrance. Come on you drowned cable, come along quietly and we’ll see if we can slave your t-shirt over some quality oven mitts.  Is it summer yet? Then call the ripples back.

You see me sitting right here with a mummy and all the partitions, both glass and municipal. You are a pal, you know that. You see me sliding along the hairy vacuum cleaner with ‘didn’t’ and ‘did not’. You can see wading around in groundhog shit when you find my kids draining the mansion and pleading the fifth coriander. You see the suits that line my lineage, creosote the bandages and gasp with flatulent crowd sourcing. They call me detective simply because I’m a fast-legged trainer. We might need you to ask a few questions, good ones and in fortunate ways.

It’s going on all over: the sword, the mage, the lager minstrels, the faulty requisition portrait, the wires, the planes, the time to go, the weight off the reassigned mind. You could always take the deal and give me a fresh start before I pat down my fedora. Good thanks and grabbing. Imported candle wax. Home depositions go well with such knockout desserts and toaster oven delights. Crash and crash in a crass way so I can ask what on earth are you doing here without all the hearing and the togetherness. Insert friendship with your fingertips and see how earthy my salesmanship really is. I have teenage tools and a detective’s intuition, dipped in liquid sugar and rewound to the beginning. This is real. Oh yes, this is as real as it gets and it will make you a happy chap. Your lapels are coming loose but you come back now, you hear.

06/10/2013 - THAT DUTCH TOUCH

That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. It talks to me. That Dutch touch. That Dutch Touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. It formed her. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. Restructuring pine scents. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. It plays us out, all the way out. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Duck tuck. That Dutch touch. They made you for me, for my curtain rail, to hang from my curtain rail. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. That Dutch touch. It plays us out, plans our future keeping. That. Touch. Is. Dutch. Or so we reckon.

IT makes it hard to determine the true follicle relevance of majesty and geometry makes it a tighter tie with only slightly loose ends. The IT department are made up entirely of young, hip yo-yos with their lyres in safe keeping. The motherboard is our true detrimental enemy, the thing that stops us from becoming our own women, that teaches men how to wear Danish totems around their necks. We’ll break their necks because we have to break their necks. At least the muscles taste good when blended with hyperbolic speedballs. Doesn’t it take longer to break it down into its constituent parts? You just holler and let me know when it’s finished, you hear? Now there’s a good boy if I ever did trap, feed and domesticate one.

As the asp clambers out of the holding bay try to comfort it with slimy supermarket jizz. It has a strange appetite but one we’re quite ready and willing to cater for or don’t you think so yourself? It’s like a bit of a break every morning, a ghoulish feminist action that turns our particular branch to shame. I don’t need to establish us with a better name right now, that comes much later with clearance. That clearance, funnily enough, comes from a giant black belt student entering the premises via the intercom. The beast comes forth and then forward eventually, it does its for platinum blondes that bottle their accusations within the wooden clauses. I can already tell it’s not going to be my day.

The next time we see this guy, the one who just left with the truthful woman of yours. Did you know that it is in fact common practice for you to squeeze the lemon juice out of salt and pepper shakers while you go run inside her kitchen and see what happens to the excellent bleeping calculator. It doesn’t look good for you or your tidy and municipal half. It’s tinny, it’s unbelievably tinny and the factory will be ruined for it but the half hour of common I have quite the plan to bring down on a congressman. Keep your nerve.

05/10/2013 - SPIN THE CONGRATULATIONS

Spin the congratulations and spin it well. It spurns the cradle from which you crawled out of, makes you retardant to the particulars of the details of the masochism you wrought. Allow yourself to transcend the difficulties and hardships of being a ginger woman and then go as far as to drown your sorrows with soapy water dotted with lime capsules, the kind you find after certain types of hardship. The manticore comes forth with its phalanx to engorge itself on your independence, your sense of independence that overrides the chief undercurrent of livelihood. The whirligig will make itself a fall guy, allow itself to be the perfect fall guy for your manic, leg-breaking situation. The manticore knows where else to feed its dystrophy into, it can use its body like a finely-cut thread on a sweaty summer’s eve. The morn doesn’t really do much of anything when you go down that far.

Don’t fuck with me, good-natured individuals. I have a knife that is as resplendent as the walk through the rockery you make every day. I see you making a mockery out of real human angst by pretending it’s a sniffle on a filing cabinet or just a filing cabinet facing the wrong direction. They’ll bed you and desert you, these office cubicle recreationists, they will smite the analogue clock with porcelain figures of twisted lions and their half-headed tiger pals. You see that? That’s your epiglottis; I made a comical depiction of it using the staplers in here. I did my best to ward off the dark spirits but they ingratiated themselves to the baby and tried their best to meet its needs in ways that you couldn’t possibly imagine. Pregnant divorcees are stuffed in stymied drawers and they’re the ones who’ll actually agree to lift your fish tank while you clean the surface beneath it. You should feel timed out.

As the fragrant dawn becomes a glowing belly of the sartorial worker, we will go down to the docks and shoot the shit with sheets of shacked up music as they dictate the harangued attitudes of their staff wagers. The mission has been launched and is due to lunch at five hundred hours, sometime before the metal on your DVR traipses into lonely sideways bars just off of the coast of your oafish smirk. I am anaesthetised by your mischief grease, ground down by your grindstone of a harp and I won’t let you take my children away. They’re my garden variety decorations, you can’t just swipe them for social causes, I’ll have your guts for garlands. That nudity you feel pressing against the back of your husband that is my discretion losing its hair and gradually turning upward. The mangled door frame is wangling watchmaker jewellery and teasing the misters out of the misses and straight into the kisses. And the beards they have created in mine image! Lo, ego problems! This isn’t going to be an issue for the Greeks nor the Romans either.

04/10/2013 - TO HELP THOSE WHO CAN HELP THEMSELVES

                To help those who can help themselves is to watch them help themselves to that which you would not use to help them with. Pants loosen, belts come apart. The nightingale has become a warden with the switch of a coat and the swish of momentary nudity. The vampires come forth to be reticent for a while, barring cold months. Pleasure prescribes the postscript and the lemurs seem to be okay with this despite years of their hard graft. The cross-eyed among you will open the drawers and let out the screams of space worms and various other apparel. Now comes the time to talk in talcum powder, drenched in talcum powder. It's a pow-wow. It's the scratch becoming a dent that turns most people off of the opportunity. The swimmers call it a commonplace hooker for misfortunate eyewear. Come back, you'll say, we're the ones who should leave.

            But how could you, cur? How could you become a better mongrel and leave your fellow pups to the trophy case fate? Such an eventuality is dry and worth running into the ground with powerful laser magic and go-go dancing juice. The galaxy comes to warp you a new one and here are the police to knock up a warning about it whilst you bitch and scream incessantly.

            Receipts are one of which, you say to no-one's grandmother. Receptions are like receipts only less final and more inclined to be poetical. Nonexistent grandmothers get things done in the time it takes to transfer the former into the latter. The gene pool doesn't allow for mistakes, not at this critical stage of takeover booking. Take the cup and you'll see how they come down with righteous customs and gay LPs. Grad school nationalists are just like electrified thespians, down for the count and fast becoming mulch only more useless. It's a tardy mark against their names and you're the one who gets the clipboard next.

            The rosebush is always slightly power mad. Everyone talks of it with such reverence and glory that it hears the words and starts to embed them between its red bits and that causes a volatile reaction which leads to a bucking sense of lady love. It'll say, mind your snout, I'm staying put and it'll actually expect you to respond to this apparent hectoring tone with delicate modernity. The alternative is perhaps resting in penniless gloves.

            You could pick up the telephone, pluck it from the stalks of standoffish roses and call the Better Judgement Services for an answer that equates to a bald man layering on a wig. The hiding of surly sentiment makes grand things happen during the spin of friction that occurs between flesh and faux hair. It'll establish a strong connection and maybe get you in good with the coat hanger crowd. They make quality product, the finest angular wires you'll ever see. With a gentle clip and a admissive push you can turn it into a fancy bow and arrow set. You'll live again.

02/10/2013-03/10/2013 - HA, HA!

Ha, ha! Yes I wish I was an innuendo aficionado but I’m too busy flicking the bean with a Minotaur to pay any mind, notice or heed. These things are scatter shod malignant tobacco on the viral lips of my disheartening light. I’m a busy woman which means exactly what it means, that I can say I am a busy woman and you just take it for face value and not be waspish about it. Don’t you see the suit? The juke? The plantation scope? I’m ready to knock out all who were concerned and have stopped due to laxative problems. I’m coming for you too, The Likes of Which, you make everyone curl their quilts into colourful meridians. I have my orders and my orders come from the little notes that I embed within the fabric of my socks. I don’t use wool; I use fabric because who wants to be righteous in this day and age?

Ho, ho! You see this fine knight grasping at his manhood with spasmodic grease, slapping his knuckles against the colonic cod between his trouser areas. He’s out to mount a campaign to fuck my behind out from under me. Little does he know that I have all kinds of warrants out and ready to slap him with, most of which are entropy-powered. Theymakemesmokeasnailwithpartisanartistry but iamnotaliarorathieforacowcalf. This is exactly where I get my idea, from the drifting droplets of dislodged rainy days. Damn. And not just damn, damn the damnable who damn the damnable while damning the damnation with more damnation that is in fact a faux version of the very same damnation. The coda lives on in the crushed velvet of Winter Season Alpha. My agents are armed and charged and charmed and no amount of lady legs will enrapture them whilst their minds are glued to this job. I can trust these men because they are simple folk with bodies that actually fit them without inadequacy. Hurumph.

Hee hee! I’m going along with this entire movie scene in order to please the lady with the scratchy crotch. She’s a maestro with a swampy vagina so I maintain a harmonic distance whilst she figures out what she wants and what their place in the world would be if we actually ever considered them with their erroneous declarations. My mind melts and calms the gross into a more bankable episode of grafter television: watch the skin go from black to hirsute within a leitmotif. The audience is definitely going to notice that so you stop blowing your nose and do something with that ray gun of yours. I’ll wrench it from your twinkly little fingers and see how the ancient monks deal with it, I’m sure that they have ways to keep their hands full for days as they burn in their own sick pen. It’s getting to be well, the wheels starting at it first. We can send Sister Maestro to sit with me awhile. I’m pondering the gothic architecture. It irks me.

And then I’ll lie about it afterwards in order to charter a profit margin with what little tools I have at my disposal. My kid died leaving behind a shred of moonstone in his upper pocket, he should have used it to reapply his loose teeth into his permanently tilting head. His mind is evil and intense so that is why you are to be perfectly nice to him, he has a tantrum schedule that works away round the clock. I might just blow up to the northeast, that might see me alone at last. The torso is displaced but the hindrance remains as always, making me round up the usual cowboys with my Got to Move speech and all of its constituent tapes. You can play it on your debit card as the television box set starts to make information everlasting, I knew he wasn’t corrupt from the start, he is the one man I might have crumpets and a snog with. He left me in a sleeper hold at our last bar mitzvah and wouldn’t feed me key out of my most precious flask. That was a monster piece but I didn’t really look at the mirror and see him down to the wrinkled resolution.

  What to do with five minutes and a foreclosure? This, for one thing. That, for another. And police custody for the third and biggest hitter in all Northern states: The Kangaroo. He’s got the stance of Alison and the patience of a Catholic on crack. She’s sobering up though and nicely too depending on how you pump her stomach on Thursdays. Somehow she is a fruitful vagina that talks at hairy halitosis seconds. They might argue that it is ecumenical but the relationships will be determined and dissolved forthwith. I have options for you whilst you wait for your own dissolution. Not the right shoes, never the right pants. Delicacies are debris and a faction of pigeon wastage. What scares you most about the island? Beside its bare external detection, it is back again with a slew of women with guys and deaths are still yet to be heard and no more candidates. Somethingsarejustcoldcaughtmerightbetweentheshadow and the question mark. It seems to signify a hill up that way, a leg up for feminist histrionics and obstetrics. Oh yes, the tea is just right. I’ll just be unbearable for half a second. I remember all the fall carpenters. The man says it’s good to see her and decides to leave the baby to its sister who can’t even run a bath properly when the puffs drag by, what’s really wrong with that outcome?

If we could talk then maybe the traffic lights might evolve into low-flying political figureheads. It would be the dream of many meat cleaver fanatics to see this outcome but I see you still have a thing for a lady with just four walks to her name. It’s worth taking to the witch just for the headaches and multiplying holes. But nah.

01/10/2013 - PARSIMONY IN LEICESTER SQUARE

Parsimony in Leicester Square. A crime of comical proportions. The endoscope is firmly wedged up the rectal cavity of a quilt mage and the steppers of stoppers are coming out and climbing out of their coming out just to lay claim to their floating respects. As is expected of a grand ensemble of dedicated loose hounds, these men and women of the Inanimate Crossing only spew forth humdrum jokes and recite obscure Shakespearean lines about sleeping and dancing. A few of them dare to pick and choose their sources but they are summarily shunned by their brothers of the mindless platitude.

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Reams and reams of pasture later, Erasmus will go out with his Police Master Notebook and pore over the cynicism of such a horrific act. He has never been more than quite a detective before so he believes that this is a good and shiny way to start the proceedings. Little does he know that the culprit is neither in the city nor in the galaxy, it was an Act of God but maybe without the capital letter, nothing has really been confirmed yet. The rings are in fact finely-spun yarn that we introduce to the public at large to keep them entertained for a brief and soluble period of time. It works for the most part but we have seen some incidents. Erasmus, on the other hand, not precisely. Erasmus is a man with a mission and that mission often takes the form of a bad sense of strategy. He will literally punch through every obstacle unless he needs to use his foot to address the matter. His head is coming off spirit by spirit but it retains its gummy texture, perhaps gaining more of a sickly sheen. He is a pustule that we can thank Mr Thank for. And Neil, though Neil is only a brother and a half-brother at that.

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Erasmus nicked the Police Master Notebook when he believed we were in the kitchen attending to the turkey basting. We were, in fact, trying out the stuffing as a potential explosive which it did, spectacularly. The jammy git not only took the notebook, he also nabbed a corner of the recipe card as well, leaving behind a caddish number for all the unsuspecting and unbelievably randy women and even some of the finger-licking dudes as well. All Erasmus left behind his a cyclical trail of whey and urine. We are pursuing him like we do any vigilante, with a clamour of afterwards and a few one-two-one-twos to keep us going in between. At least the offence has not been taken by Neil, he has helped us from the day that followed the day go. He will die, we believe, before we can get him to the ladies room. It is with great pleasure that we state that this troublesome faux detective will end his investigation within a humble women’s toilets. He will no doubt cry when he notices a distinct lack of men with skulls tattooed on their faces.