15/10/2013 - WHEELIE TROPES

Wheelie tropes made the black cargo gold with the flick of a flicker of a sleight of hand in a lonely pocket. It glimmered past the lazy bean fields and turned its attentions onto womankind with a kink in both its heart and belly. These knots made for sick, heavy breath and flaming boozers in twilight damask. Residual rights activists came out in full force, they came out with extra full force in case the fires were bonny and blithe. It's a kid's round full of malware, born of triumphant miles and trumpet calls in star prize preening. To pass the baby is to slide a buck into the contextual hand of chartered accountancy. It jet, jet, jettisons the warm lumps of the marked news, carefully avoiding the bits made of macarooni and pure typhoid.

            It cries Fahrenheit, Celsius but neither at the same time, not on the dales. To do so would go unrequited like the American and the Scotsman who tried to emulate the Irish brother they so frequently bashed for his good for nothing stereotypes. They never realised he threw himself into a pregnant woman's womb in order to resurrect an order from the colonel, the one he never got round to hearing properly and throughout. He was making tracks towards the dictionary definition, sowing seeds and sprouts of felony all around his tabernacle feet as he went along. The jigs started to play but then the party was over and the noose was starting the painful process of turning into a comely Sheila. They say it can only commemorate his sadness but that would require sorting out the fluffy bits first, the nicks and the punch.

 

 

 

 

 

            Swathe said - we're the only ones you had between the wall and the skirting board. Mastery replied - you did quite well, quite well with your jobless Deuteronomy scripture. Swathe said to him - so you're on his side now? I'll bet you were on his slight side all along, weren't you? Mastery snapped - oh shut up while I get the fire started. Swathe muttered - I was only saying. Mastery said - don't speak, it's far too easily done for the likes of you. Swathe sat in silence and fondled his navel like an hour glass or an upturned swan. Mastery designed a brand of liqueur that would make anyone late for their bad appointments guaranteed. No satisfaction though.

            The woman in the corner has trouble sleeping. She feels observed and often gluts herself on the realisation that she must leave for some undisclosed farm somewhere to mark up carrots for the sake of courage whilst the infection and its layer cake structure spread out across the badlands. This case is a yes without tidy relevance, an affirmative that takes so long you might not even realise that the answer is coming with the intention of pounding you into bone idle sausage meat paste. The rectory provides solace to the bleak and underlay but opens its back doors to everyone.

14/10/2013 - AN ABRASIVE INDUSTRY

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13/10/2013 - THE SIDESHOW WAS NOT IMPERFECT

The sideshow was not imperfect nor was it episodic. It was merely an outsider opinion on a world filled with chitin and oxygen, a reaction to all the bad juju that lives and works its trade amongst our limbs and embolisms. The tribes that rise from its catacombs stand surprisingly tall at least thirty four feet, grinding their teeth against ocular reefs. Occasionally their molars catch against abandoned housing estates and make an unforgivably irate sound in lieu of a happy hunter pay check. These guns are there to take them down, one after their stinking other, cousin after lonely cousin. Their loneliness is what we’re counting on. We have the stakes and what it takes to be normal so these chumps don’t have to, that makes them vulnerable to our pockets and the twitching going on inside them. This is how we instigate.

We dress up as radical ladies of video game descent and charge them thrifty dollars to show them what lies beneath our underclothes which will, of course, be no more than a handful of measly peanuts and dandruff. Then we launch our head traumas and watch them cripple themselves with aneurisms and marriage annulments. It’ll go down delicately and some might even chip in their front teeth for a new laptop bag, if you know what I mean which of course you don’t because I don’t pay you to know what the hell it is that I mean. You’re already proving yourself to be better than half of those Italian recruits who lost their lives in the battle of metres and grey skin cells. Good riddance to burly rosebud rogues. I don’t make them but I sure as hell smoke them out good. Just call me the Super Rat Killer with foppish tendencies and a measured inclination. I have an incinerator if you think that’ll help garner attention. I could display it, just say.

As for the bulges of ageing eyes on a lovely-shaped woman and her dreamy livelihood, there isn’t much I can do but offer her my condolences. It just means that the giants have gotten to her existentialism and stripped it away like skin off a chicken drumstick, cannon to the heart-wrenching speech they always like to promise but never deliver on. I might have been witness to it at one time but no way am I letting it happen on my watch again. My hands are too red to even pick up the phone, a condition which happens when I’m not under pressure in fact. It’s a tremulous auteur who comes forward and becomes forward in his beliefs, he needs the spine of an idiot iron girder and the swappable soul of an entire beachside population. You’re coming with me, Sonny Jim, because I’m not fighting him while this steaming. So much for work for the body against the clock. Tiffs instigate the clock which basically means activate but I like to sound technical before I try to wipe you out of the equation completely.

12/10/2013 - ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL, ALL

All, all, all, all, all, all, all white men are at once both yaks and themselves. They shelter in hydraulic stations and remark about all, all, all the gay porn they managed to duck and dodge (except the homosexual ones who wear brown fedoras to forget about such travesties) and all, all, all, all, all the fireworks they massaged and lead out through the Soviet Paramour’s renal valves. The surf is indeed riding high to the yield and won’t filter down the hilt until the puppeteer perfectionist has slaughtered his own string maker with fatherly jibes and jabs. It’s do or die, it’s definitely definitive as far as sightseeing goes.

As some sow the wind with tampered genuflections, the rest of us casted men will add flavour to our stock characters and shuffle out the women before they make a nuisance of themselves. This could easily be the case for some of them; we’ve spent so long listening to their intelligence that we can spot the cruelty from eighty crappers away. Measurement needn’t come into it anymore, we’re fine judges ourselves with our wigs on and our favouritism tied together at one end. It’s not a secret you know nor would it ghost the world with foxy bartering.

I could be a broken man, of course, I could be a broken man if that was all, all, all, all I actually wanted to do with my time which it isn’t. I much prefer to be the Lantern’s Idiot, a gentleman who spends his time chattering away to tall dry grass stalks and not doing much at all about valediction. It’s electric discovery that drives up the tally marks, tickling the blonde representative with unique impropriety. As well you should, as the saying goes in a paraphrased sort of fashionable way. Yes.

It’s going well. At least it’s going comparatively well for some sepulchre and its son of a bitchy gun. As the refractory said to the refectory, HOES AND BOXES GO ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, NOT ONE INSIDE THE OTHER. DIPSHIT. SURELY THAT WAS PLAINLY APPARENT. I’m not a good man for such a simmering job, not such a white man to stand up for a few keys and a blank screen running whirring sounds in its upper portions and slide bits. Letting go of the basin will be just as the product placement tester expected with all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all, all downsizing have a route inside the business that actually worked and ran deep enough to climb through. There are supposedly forty five desks to slacken and dot with jetpack memorabilia so we’ll probably never get round to our planned daytrip to the New York Congress Library. Perhaps if we breath very usuriously we might be accepted into the hall of political insults and occasional ineffective scandal. All these things carry their own bite, each one less malicious than the last. We rank them in descending order like so and so and so...

11/10/2013 - A BALD JEWISH MAN

A bald Jewish man with a tidy zip comes along every Thursday to blow on the brain and tickle the blood that seeps out of it onto the Parliament gates. It makes a pressure cooker sound, a noise which more often than not interferes with his ability to differentiate greyscale from white. The nasal faculties can and do often distort the carnival data, like it mattered or something. Gold drops from the bald Jewish man to tell his feet and sensible shoes that the shoreline isn’t quite as surrendered as it should be, that it’s wrought and fraught with metal detectors that never seem to lose their shape no matter how much they get called up by police for scientific matters. Someone did something to a shell but that’s all he knew beforehand.

 

Good little spirals can electrocute his ability to be unable with a cause; it can turn him right on his back and throw off his circuit board with nimble treads of the flintlock pistol. The bald Jewish man can taste the stickiness of this line of thinking all the way from over his own hat and there is absolutely nothing his fingertips can do to threaten the situation into tidying itself up. They’ll tell him to come back and come away with hotel listings and sore t-shirts covered with leopard print vomit. Right then they’ll tell him to examine the thankful computer with bulging phosphorescent eyes and foyer voyeurism. Can the language and you’ll reduce the powder into a distinct warp in the lens of some sucker’s second eye, the one that covers his original one without the aid of conversation. There might be new evidence circa major contribution that would re-establish a golden rectangle with storybook potential. That’s the goal of naturalism as found in milky fingerprints and dissolving focus.

 

It would be built from spirals, infused with the thought process of the bald Jewish man and his personal note. He would usually step out onto a limb to let it happen with home market gusto, he would find himself a Hebrew character to muse over and trap with asterisk pinholes. Why would hyphenation affect a man with a blanket tie such as him? The paranoia is tremendous, tremulous and fairly nice as an aphrodisiac. It deserves a mask of treatment, a grimace of light and perhaps a quick and spurious version of the happy birthday song. The lines and dots and curls are courteous enough to supplant themselves in gross return via a pulsing beep. Rubbing the knees might accelerate the process but then what would the wires be for in the big, blue ending? It’s a drawn-out selfish moan in the unshaven face of scientific discovery. Follow the arrows.

 

There is so much to binary, the bald Jewish man surmised, there is so much to eat and repeat and bump uglies about it. It drives me into usurious technology but that’s not so bad. I’ll live as the wailing goes on and scrapes the fuck.

10/10/2013 - RETICENT BOWELS

Reticent bowels, they are. Plastered down ironing boards with the trimming nibbled off with red, blamed teeth. Take a little walk down to Dingo Corner and splay your lovechild with football fowls and borderline crossfire. He/she's never coming back unless its along sweaty stacks and disappearing thorns. They make craters.

                Delve a little deeper and you know what you might not know you'll find if you find it without your wet little goggles on. Such dismay on the edged quaff that tips and folds grouses into untidy stammers of the yokel nomenclature. It's sacred and you know it to have many tiny timeless portions of goodly thatching. It pounds as hard as calculators on the soft side of wilting milk bottles. It barks without inhibition and occasionally without a decent pair of shoes to behold. Some might tell you not to seek out the beaker but you'll do it because your father was a man of industry and his brothers and other siblings were down for the count from an early age, round about the time they were forgotten about entirely and caked in hazy dust. Everyday features become more and more apparent, just like the breaching hilt against the undertow of your harvester belt. See how it matches your eyelids.

                  We see that your name is an picture again. Actually two pictures as I have just rightly been informed. Very good. We are pencilling it in as your experience of an otherworldly veto. You managed it all by yourself, without any empty pockets to swim inside. You took the answer right out of that horse's bushy tail and expressed it all across your hairless chest. You weren't a woman the last time I checked but then my direct conversational style does tend to ignore the intricacies of the other party, especially when they aren't as heavy as me. What have we here? Firstborn physics all over again.

The microwave clock, the microwave clock. It's the same as the elk's inner thigh seam but they probably didn't account for that. The colour is a baffling hue of green, the yarn of the Technicolor Empire, the toast and the talk afterwards, the polite one that is. Laying the groundwork is the same as pencilling in stuff about persons other persons don't like, it's the twisting of the natural writhing patterns. Washing carefully is a grand practice under the burning eye of the green microwave clock and all its constituents. It's derivative, the entire experience is entirely derivative but who really cares to find that out anyway? Most people have that encouraging NOW feeling which wraps around their legs and talks with a gay man's sneeze.  It promises a bacterial biscuit relationship, the one that Benedictines have without patient remorse. Hearing the saxophones above the trumpets is a must on this side of the world.

                I'm grabbing my hat, my coat, my Augustine displeasure with the rim around the top. I'm reaching for a door that is selective in its hearing. I'm you now.

09/10/2013 - WAVELENGTHS

Wavelengths – abort, abort, abort. This is where you get off with all your namby pamby rhetoric, this is where we depart your baggage and shuffle your shoes off the platform and into some steamy cafe. Direction implicated. The nouns are following you around like a dude in drainpipe trousers, they’re hanging on your every quiff. Save yourself for marriage, chum, save yourself for the marriage of elastic knot tying. It could reach out to your inhibited Liverpudlian accent, very probably. Very possibly. But that’s chatter. Return to mainframe, launch detonation sequence. Shift frames. Focus. Focus. Double-time. Zoom into rumba.

His mother had a toe rag at the ready for just such friends as you, she kept it in her happy satchel and removed it only when the habit took her and refused to shake her. She’s a good little carrot nibbler, a retrospective pneumonic going down a slipstream at hyperactive enunciation. It’s a hatchet. That’s a hatchet. Someone jabbed it into the wood and now no sucker can get it out without trapping their lips on the handle. The teeth rattle against the wood and make an awful jarring sound. It verges on Autistic Spectrums that exhibit themselves out of the known parameters of time but not space, not necessarily. They only take nihilistic attitudes, do the cosmonauts, it allows them to savour their burnt reputation. These suckers like burnt toast on gnarly beans.

Hope breach. Hope breach. Wavelengths flat lining. No-one’s around to see it, no one with half a qualification anyway. Your here though and your name might as well be on a name card. Wait, there’s isn’t any room so how about we rechristen you? How about Erasmus? That’s fine upstanding name to come from a vineyard that some quiet little town spewed up on its outskirts. It’s a glum card collector’s name, worth the baptism if you say so. Well, you said so, so.

You see that. I’m not asking, you know that you see that. It’s a big wormy baggage handler being kicked off his own train. That’ll teach him to say WHOAMITOGORUNNINGWITHTHEBIGDOGBOYSOFWESTERNPROPORTIONANDEASTERNPREPOSITIONWHILEMYWIFEGOESOUTHUNTINGFORGROUSE whilst on a moving vehicle. Good on you for hollering him. School in the morn. Dedicate the foghorns. The amount of stuff I’ve been lugging around for you these past eighty years, it would make your mother’s calculator bleed. She’s coming round to tea, correct? Present and correct, as always. I see.

You have a man’s briefcase, not this man over here but a man’s secret briefcase. There’ll be goodies inside but don’t look because you’ll invalidate them with your sightline. Products wither with exposure to clean, plaintive air. It will make you see the true folly of your hairdressing ways, I’m sure. I’ve talked to your mother, well, been talking to your mother and she thinks you need to organise a trade of gifts with that little Irish girl from down the way. I’ve heard she’s lost the vast majority of her snub-nosed curls now, she’s been away for a while. 80% uploaded. Yessiree.