07/12/2013 - NOT WHILE THE PROPER AUTHORITIES ARE LOOKING

                Not while the proper authorities are looking. They can already tell that the earthworm is glowing between three selective tablets that hone their craft in unique and unusual ways. The flourishes set off alarms, give them a solid form that grows older and grows cannons out of its eyebrows. The climb is like a dog nibbling its backside and completely ignoring its tail, unjustified and, to some bespectacled gentleman, reprehensible. I can see the fire but it just makes the matter a drone of its former application, a boulder in a lake of sewage and floating bogey mounds. The plantation just turned sick, suffering from some sort of dodgy syndrome.

                Spiders make slick footballers that regularly pay their taxes and lay down their wives for other men to speculate on. The hellish landmarks they create off of the back of curly-haired muggins types is phenomenal and yet only slightly more suggestive than bread-buttered biscuits. You drive the shiny arse to a scratchy-faced surgeon and you get what you paid for and don't go telling any old soul about it until the lawyers and solicitors and the finger bashers have done correcting your false opinions. It'll halt the sorority misgivings and cause cream soda bottles to peak and average out among themselves until they share the same volcanic eruption for the sake of those nosy children that always seem to hang around the biochemist laboratory.

                The oven is in readiness and a transfer of power is imminent. The children among the spiders get out of their positions to make it really hard for themselves in the hopes that that reversal of sense will ward off all opposition. The decision will land in the hands of a crack shot with an empty shell suit, with all the force of a teacup smashing against a windscreen. The shatter damage will  make the black community cry and call the police for reasons we fools could not fathom. Watch yourself while you wreck the storm into clever film adaptations. Feedback crushes all hope with a new set of wings and an aspiring dance tape. The ten microscopic reasons to be cheerless have been leaked all over the National Christmas Pageantry Channel so don't touch that dial, if you still have a dial.

                Meanwhile let us read the pages of a wink and make off with only some of the loot whilst the landlady isn't retroactively conning the supermarket trolley attendants with her winning vertigo. It's not nice to see the man boobs come out in favour of nihilistic political tactics but that's the sort of shit that happens when you like in a closed off society with all the window blinds pulled down. The author of peace is a baton with its sweaty end burrowed deep into the flavourless ground and the only party trick it will answer to involves a gravy boat, a sea monkey foetus and a jar of pickled milk. Please note that this trick is far more boring than you think.

06/12/2013 - OBLIQUE HARPS PLAYING

Oblique harps playing. Strum, strum, strumpet, pop it on a crumpet. Pump it. You'll come to regret the seeing of the eyeing up of an Antarctic Land miner, you'll always feel it burning into your flesh and a few of your retinas when you really should be just plagiarising fairytales for the sake of the masses down at the Laundromat. Up to fifty lines of the same old stuff is allowed, provided you write an outrageously flirtatious commentary to stick onto the side. As of now the down is on the bunny, all along the bendy part of the ears. It's a reflexive verb.
They say regret is the paprika of lampoon, that Susan knows all and must know all for us to know or even care much about anything. It's like a run-on sentence that makes word salad into a worldly achievement for the grandiose and plucked to tamper with to their merry heart's content whilst they abate from their communal kitchens in search of better formats for their pudding intentions and wiser staff members to chuck under the red-faced buses until child abuse and apartheid is sorted out and/or gotten rid of without even the slightest recession of educational statistics. We own 20% of train travel because of these pushy tactics, we lose hours with every tunnel and in some patches of the Kent area. Grab both cheeks and get your arse into gear before so much money leaks from the Scotsman's castle. Never say well enough in case you follow a laser sight straight to costumed book clubs and masked reading groups. The coast is worst and has been for two decades.
Our wars divide the castrated and the mugged, the guilty and the drunk, the eighty from the minus eighty. Some of the banks are reclaiming their claims on clamming up, rethinking their experiences in fields of fist-throwing and spectacular chair-smashing. You need to get to the props to do anything about it, to reinvigorate your peachy brainstorm. Careers square off in a square dance. These are eyeballs and have seen enough to melt a microwave oven with Danish dexterity. Susan has her keys in her pockets and those keys don't jangle unless she commands them to. European Union vigilance.
Her husband, Seraphim, works for the Boorish Meritocracy and describes it as bally well grand fun. Many believe him which is surprising because of his natural lack of conviction and inability to air out dirty laundry. He drops tea bags in jars of coffee and calls it a religious experiment that the Sacred Twenty Five Minutes wants to know but hasn't yet seen. That smells pretty rank, most members of Parliament say but they've never been too good at spelling things out with their usual senses. We auctioned off their plush seating and they've been raw about it ever since, loathed our guts and tried to wish them into garters. Fortunately that wasn't one of the challenges presented to us, we had Susan to deal with. She's boss.

05/12/2013 - THE ACT OF THE ELVES

The act of the elves was unconditional, it taught us all about the art and form of telling in a new age of satisfactory results. Appreciation is an outmoded probability, a deprecated piece of foliage under the numerical footfall of man's design. Where do we go from there, as opposed to here? It might be a superficial, supercilious question but it's question that plagues on and on until you do something to make it feel wanted and appreciated and regarded in some theoretical light. It can be a shard of a beam or a whole spotlight for the eye teeth but it has to be glorified or else the lions will come to peck out our lungs with handwritten bridges tucked behind their claws.  

Afterwards I suggestion we call the local council to see what they stand on and for how long depending on heavy rainfall and possible flooding. It's the sort of inquisition that won't take up more than five minutes of a gentleman's boredom time so these chaps will just have sit back and bear the contingent grins that will be blazed in their general direction. The wearers of these grins are patient men, luckily for our council chaps, and usually won't spill out all their content on a red-eyed contestant at once. Memory whitens and the march rattles on with indignant pause and laughing glasses. Just give up ten mean minutes of the time to follow this particular advertisement to a cult that will sanctify and sort itself into a religion in its own right though still with jelly legs beneath their ceremonial hems. They've given up on the leg and the women are following up their petitions with one more unabashed proclamation of messy grammar.

You're sweet and you know you are because the marriage license wouldn't find you any other way. Be sure and supple and the world will hike up your irreverence like the naughty vicar it is. Or maybe you'd prefer to look north to the hustled dentist or west to the neighbour who just so happens to be a tyrant and a sinner? Inspiration pops up everywhere and rarely accounts for itself in the correct caricature. After the talk of seasons is over and done with many children return to the dust their father's came from and whistle about typhoid until the forthcoming invitation of the Last Great Backgammon Tournament. All you'll say is wow, that is the password and literally all you will ever need to say while up there. Capture the first one in a tincture, it's the freshest and provides the most interesting optical illusions that will impress the dying and ripened. These are monsters with wilful points and protracted personal positions on most claptrap arguments of the heart. Get your drink, grab your gripe, fasten up, buckle down, let your hair down further or higher and give up to the creature of all your cuddliest habits. Haemophilia shouldn't have to be like striking gold when the rush and the fever have past and you're hurtling past the seats.

04/12/2013 - THE FIRST GIVES PERMISSION

                The first gives permission to the second gives permission to the third gains commission for the eighth and no-one dances. Magic realism. Send it out, disappear with the entertainment instead. What are the sales like? Anything like the sails? Billowing in the undercarriage of a fatwa? It really is the cause of a blurt with its knees knackered and knocked together into a knobbly corruption of its original form. The desertion is a bit of a dodgy cause too but at least they have knives and shallow graves prepared for it in case of horrific maladjustment. Lights go off on the sallow man child while he is trying to ask about the finger foods and where he could possibly make a furtive insurance policy out of opium and the dealers who drink it. That is the question of a bicuspid, one in a flap over heavy camera equipment being lost at the bottom of an endless sea.

                This is the end of the episode and by now you've come to expect the plunk of the pluck of the string on the earring as we slice open the curtains, right between them and draw out the sickness with salad tongs. This is a metrical calculation and deserves more metrical calculation but this time in iambic tetrameter. Friday is a washout, an essential eyeglass that spirits away the always from the entirety of the nubbin. It hurts as you hurl or so the witchcraft piece has explained to your father and his uncle's father. Interruption cuts through swathes of amazons without even growing a fanciful beard. The ladies don't quite know what to do with the absence of a moustache but the inch tape has come out to play. They're fresh out of bunions thanks to the wonder cure cream and now they want to make your day grim with a hint of gloomy glum again. Ride along the stripes of history and you'll find an angry young man who cannot accept the fact that he is losing the right to bodily castration via the causality principle. You mend it and you go up a grade but only at midday.

                The query comes through for all sons and daughters of the Opus Orphan, the query has been drastically impacted by the dramatic interpretation currently churning itself out on telly. The man with the carefully cut tie has told you to be a good little golden goose and make your eyes ache for a little while. The rickety one-off pop star keeps sticking his tongue in and waggling it about in front of the shot in case that would translate as absurdist comedy. It makes the matter into things and things without matter are vertiginous. Everybody knows why you were at the bottom of the grove, fan fiction has been written about it. It expands on your penny-pinching ways with a heart warming rendition of a political figure past to keep you company on the quiet route down to Alienation-on-Vague. The website has the same sort of thing with full-on capital letters.

03/12/2013 - THE RIGHT SORT OF PEOPLE

The right sort of people become the right sort of pupils but only when the fine place is visited and the embolism is taken roughly. Could we be another way of thick? We’re already Plexiglas by the same job but we don’t have to yield to the miles of sheepish beeps like a hearty breakfast would make transparency rich. Avarice is worth something to you like a cleaner on the mindful moment around the place. You realise that the formula invents red fervour? You accept the change of pregnancy down the ages like you accept the wake of a man in white robes and slinky vertices. Make thanks. Make planks. Have drinks among the cetacean biologists because they’re upset and perceptive. They’ll be flown on a special tab of locus wings. I could take those whales to the hard luck cases and stand beside them ditsy admirals all the remainder of the time.

            No humpback born in captivity has ever survived to properly receive disco limits. The pocket pager dresses and adorns the Lothario and I am all ears. The chuckles and the red shirts are plenty big enough for the truth and the Americans that obnoxiously enforce it. I’ve come back in time repopulate the species. How coy. How teabag! The pregnancy of the media circus will let me go, let me leave all noon tomorrow. We don’t use money in the Sniffer Dog Alliance, we merely accredit livelihoods to those who deserve them. The whirring is getting me rallied together but together is such a nonchalant sound in this podcast of cockamamie fish stories. The transmitter is classified and the shadow of a tree makes the lady in the pink petticoat look actually believable in a historic setting.

            Craft and crap and betterment and its Layman’s terms for being in the courageous park among all its accredited members making a few unrepentant tail wagers. The tally is too damn high for the status and the probably aches end to end with entropy. The gold earrings are worth every penny but the double barrel weirdo will ascend the test programme. It must be coming from straight inside the tracking port of the ship. What do you make of it? Can you see the intruder scoffing out the flames? I can take you to the man with marigold stand-up stairwells but he won’t be too kind to the good-looking perpetrator that you are. Freeze while the going is good and the checker service isn’t taking limes from the top. You’re through the short end of the sleeve now, stunning as it may be, and the radical conical security breach won’t allow you to make your usual dashing escape into jury duty.

            It hurts, I can tell from the way that you’re walking that it hurts. I can tell from the way that he is walking, the bank teller with the fruits in his dwarfish automatic. It kills him to do what is necessary in spite of the promising escort of deep feelings.

02/12/2013 - IT'S HIS TURN TO BE JILTED

            It's his turn to be jilted, his turn. Innocence and realisation and Elsecar and scholarship and chaps and talcum powder and faithful steed and misogyny and pallid drones and sutures. This is his grocery list adapted into etiquette coda. The missing sections represent thinner actors like an entire federation of limping, fundamental agents. It's vulgarity coming straight through the ear trumpet and we need to turn that vulgarity on him before he hurts another lady spruced up by the butter his bees keep. Ergo, therefore, meantime, hitherto, be a boy, aforementioned, be a boy, definitive, be a lad, let it go straight to the cranial circuit. All slang, all his slang used to maintain an air of chic ineptitude.     No honey's going to make this seldom seen translator lady into a hostess of separated bookshelves. It stokes. It makes him seem almost clingy by ameliorative matchmaker standards. Wolf whistles are to potty mouth as senior citizens are to cumulative suffixes. Once ahead. Once afterwards. The cakes and the carpets and the hope chest and not much of anything else. It tests me, it tests her, it tests the lot of us right into fucking oblivion. The announcements pipe in like fluent charm-speak, explaining his naturally seething way to a group of stone masons.

            I offer her tea but she's utterly fed up and unfortunately that means that the queen has stopped being the be-all and end-all of British comedy for her. She weeps into a demanding film spoof as the Spanish fleets go past in their startling formations. Smoke and pictures, smoke in front of pictures as the steam licks from behind. It's not such an accusation anymore, there is proof to plump it all the way out to pudding status. Costs go down and the Human Rights Commission have nodded all the way through one too many occasions. The helicopter will reclaim their soggy ashes from the buttocks of the professor of baguette conflictions. Next year we'll abide to his words of rapid wisdom, all the while letting go of the memory of the man who tore our people apart. She, of course, is our people. She, of course, is sinister.

            The options are gamey: oil it up or oil it down. We're all in here for the benefit of a mankind that hasn't even been born yet, hasn't even started to process complaints and untidy insults. I don't think we'll be around to hear the brunt of what they're destined to explain in painstaking detail. We will all have died and gone on to a place where our stolid bones are replaced with hollow bones because they'll never catch us that way. We'd be the winged ones and we'd never have to serve his Machiavellian interests again. He is a heartbreaker, a turncoat, a turkey, a selective hearing case, a telltale and a hirsute liar of manic initiations. Don't ever thank him, he has cutlery in his back pocket and claims that he is just poorly again and deserves packing peanuts down the trousers.

01/12/3013 - THEY TELL ME IT SPINS

They tell me it spins just as much as it teases. The edges of this fluffy, fuzzy mischief are not to be darned with, the man with a screwdriver in each of his eight grey pockets told me so. None of them were denim and his hands never did slide down to fondle the handles. He told me to get the word out before it got too late in the month and his wife and children demanded that he returned to hell with the rest of his merry band of foretellers. I thought he was gay though I have been wrong about this sort of thing before.

I don’t carry any priors a priori to my weedy initiation. I’m a gentleman with a few wisps of hair across his pockmarked cheek and I deserve to carry and then wield a cane. I OWN HALF OF THIS INDUSTRIAL LAND SIMPLY BY BEING HERE WITHOUT A SINGLE SCRAP OF BAGGAGE. Yes, this land will do the trick, plenty of room to graze and make up the horrid laughter that my brain usually does while on hold for something more extradited. Soon enough I will own every brick, have it in my grasp despite the mortar.

            Controllers tell me you know how to tangle hot blonde girls with 10-ton weights but I want to see how its possible and if you’re lying from your fire escape while you do it. I suppose you can’t trust a man with a ladder strapped to his back but, in this crazy version of today, who can you trust then employ then trust again? Not this chap surely, the ribbons in my hat must recite the fact that I am not a lad or a bloke nor even the kind of thing they usually ridicule. I’m a short treaty of summits in human guise, throwing around arms and legs like a conman would do shapes and shadows. I’m just glad to be here without a stitch on whilst you all energise whatever it is that you count on as brutality. If early mornings do suit then throw the self around for a while until you can shake off the need, the lust to revert back. IT HAPPENS.

            Halfway across the world now, the crimes are vastly outrunning the deviants who are inspired by them. This is natural of course, the material living on ahead of the little things that follow in its impressive wake. Dogs may yip but so long as cars whiz by we’ll never have to worry about getting hit by multiple batons under a radiant orb. There should be something sufficiently escape-proof up ahead provided that you don’t wake up whilst it’s coming up. Do you have even an iota of dance in that subtle frame of yours? The people want to see a wench on her last legs, not a person with some useful capabilities. They came here to see you drop ahead of your time. Failure will not be accepted, not while the itinerary has a lasting effect.