07/03/2014 - SENSORY OVERLOAD IN KENTUCKY

Sensory overload in Kentucky: leave this like this, won’t you stay a while? How do you feel about sparkly purple at the funeral? It’s a pleasant plague of sparkles and vibrant enough to transpose the moment with truthful police action. I was on patrol last night and saw the girly things that I do in a new light, nearer eleven due processes than seven.

He was drunk but we noticed him like a caddy of neglect and basically he made tutorials with every cat hair step. He took charge like falling out the ear, trying to make crazy ears so happy without holding bars or singing earnest Chinese faces into existence. His charity came along like a voice and wound up getting jazz in a swing through the square handlebars and the justice snow swoon. Something sinister is living inside of my refurbished coffee machine, the days continue to sing like regression in cool soothing music given in the exact same amount as strong coffee in empty glass vials. There’s a demon in there and he has knockers to expose mostly because of the grinder. It really upsets the theme with distraction. I told you gusy that she does this in a package addressed to my local bank without the rubber stamp seal of approval. They say its dreadful in the troop truth. He must not have died like a muskrat, you gusy should know that like a dog in the woods getting drunk on its own ambition and self-portraiture. Be self-possessive and defend the tax attorney’s right to battery acid and sewage water. What can you do about the bunch and the hitman’s cooking lessons? He uses preservatives because they’re cheap.

The girl that owns the complex next door has dudes come in to plant trees with space age tight fits and hoary chopping motions. The pictures are hilarious and strewn with rage against smash cuts. A taxi comes along the way and runs straight up the girl’s suit and tackles her tie as if it were nothing more than a Hindi cataclysm. That’s my train, a perhaps might say but he didn’t bring his luggage so. Wait for this time tomorrow to see how the someplace turns out; will it be in-flight or merely slowly passing seven miles by in a blinkered thirst? Peaceful thin chaps will cross red letters with drunken shades and then wriggle about with blue doors as if all the colours might straighten his hair out and brighten the corners of his moustache with all the consistency of water waking up from its frothy night time dreamtime.

They told me to apologise for apathy in equipment management and tickets that smoke at the corners with turban pleasure and sweet lime and perhaps a savoury snack to keep the reddened doorways cigarillo-shaped. You are the third most informative person to have ever crossed my tyre jack. Can we agree to bond in the unknown?

A: Shard

B: Itinerary

C: Buenos Ares

D: Any questions about the face?

06/03/2014 - BREATHTAKING SURREY

Breathtaking surrey along the gentle wreckage of the onceuponatime confessional booth. The splinters are just yummy and the area and circumference have been vastly improved, thanks for asking. I’m so glad that the gratuity of the ice beam has finally run you over with espousal quality and an undercarriage to match the finest dress of the firmest lady in waiting.

Chainsaw ellipsis underneath the camp wheel of the wheelbarrow. This is one perfect way to stand for the sake and pretension of realm thinking, you loose your automatic webs like a grabber who is far too overdressed for their own good. You ask and you’re never going back to see what past accounts for The Past Feast. The frisking there’s a nightmare besides. The cold doesn’t seem to bother many of the confessors anyway who prefer to operate in pitch black conditions with a unanimous samurai katana on standby, standing alongside their Zulu shield.

Limited laser capacity from the fractal whiteness of a baby chick in the killing fields. Ask for the nobody in the room and you’ll find your hand filling up with cheering speed and lighted rage that glows grey and spits out navy blue just in case you aren’t listening or preparing yourself for the whopper. Spending a life giving in to the madness of money and gaslight Warfarin will see the tissues fall once and for mostly those concerned and with stock somewhere down the lines. There’s plenty to lose and only a mild amount of bothersome aftershocks created within the cold confines of night time. Watch out for the better beverages because they are the fiercest offenders and will blank you on sight. Nobody likes to be scenic when there’s a film crew with its unanimous nose pointed down and burrowing between the sheaths of rock that cuddle up to the core and warm their tootsies.

The blades hear and stand and stand to point at the hearing aids that we so cleverly conceal behind our invisible ears and flickering ears of corny cornea. Tomorrow lost its mind before the weekend and now it just won’t get it back due to discourteous remarks on a motherly part. The spider has its own band and lives and plays in the light of day and absolutely nowhere else unless you pay him too, each of his little legs. You must be this spindly to rock this joint and that’s the ruling of the court of insects. Contempt is so easily a prayer on the back of a paperback sandwich that money makes for the tasting of all pitch-perfect music teachers and only the wettest half of their wettest class. The casts will be made out to the past and the paste it leaves behind in lieu of a trail, the yummyhahah that corrects each facility it slimes and shimmies through. The man who was a king brought a spade along to sharpen on the grindstone but he didn’t know where to place it afterwards so now he’s just wandering the plains.

05/03/2014 - BASED ON THIS SET UP

Based on this set up the broadcast is filled with fairy dairy reboots and blinking, bilking lights that dictate what is and what isn’t. Come alive with a woman’s voice, come around the ping of pink to spank the protective services into secure public school education or even wire-cutting insurrection. I can only listen to myself in a pool, in a well, in a limitation to the world of electronics and beautiful mantra tundra impermanence. I wish all the software could be free for the lustful night to wrap with numbers and knuckles and twenty two other versions of sixteen digit numbers. It’s all commonality in the ocean disparate from the band camp that clutches on and keeps on coming with silly straw in its pockets. All creatures of proverb know of the sandwiches and the space between sandwiches that damn the monarchy and shudder to think of the shuttlecrafts that don’t dilate eighteen inches to let out enough steam or Tex-Mex leftovers. Today we did neutrality a favour with a flick of a bitter protester in the snow and the hardcore pornography. The dreams they make are overtly shallow and dressed up with frilly bits of paper and tissue and black limestone chipped away down to the paint. All the grey masochists have their packets of tissues ready for small transactions and professional hand dryers that demand laddies with sweet gherkins and pouting watch marks. They tell me that you’ve seen more than enough of this world, that the battles are so terrifying that you can’t stand to stand up for the things anymore, even with a hoverboard pressed against your back in sexual preclusion. The dancing is beautiful and brings tears straight to the eyes like fax machines and other outdated, outmoded concepts from yesteryear and all of its huggable predecessors. The big man in orange has a list in case you need to know how many references to pack into a single monument engraving, he packs his coat with packing peanuts and concert pianists who can’t even turn their own smelly pages for their own smackhead selves. He’s back to lay claim to the encouragement according to echoes and trickles of better battlements and cunning stratagems. Have faith with movement and scatological scape-goating. You are an inspector of everything transformative and little in the fright department. Never kick the dog in case he’s a pup with ambition, unpronounceable and yet demountable. Prepare for the telling and retelling and the heels and the shills and the cetacean power potions with fruity sideburns. Concentrate the truth of revolutionary redaction and say bravo to the snake in the grass as he’s led up the devilish tower. There is work we have to do and the little boys are stating their case with respectable accountability and tiresome tirelessness. Most often we run out of petrol before we even get to this place this far out in the desert. Good afternoon, yon perfectionist, you’re Daedelus with skates on. Say death now, say death again.

04/03/2014 - ELIJAH

Elijah. He did it like a child. He crafted a crutch on which to sit on and your abs were never quite the same when the speed became the problem. Every bone in his body was shattered when the last ambulance caught up with him. I’ve never seen the like before since my time in your uterus. The black woman had to be laid up on a splint because she had to be the bystander when the sandstorm came a-calling. It was like glass, the Eastern Principle with heads jammed behind car seats that were low-riding and unobtainable to those who tired eyes and yellow shirts and canary shorts.

Are you all right to be the problem for a while? I could certainly use a replacement since Elijah went missing behind the catacombs courtesy of the milk carton express train. Someone left this magazine and, in it, all the clues of casting and thanksgiving. I’m a synchronised swimmer with fear in my goggles, my cornerback dreams have aspired to naught. I don’t say much about the acting of a maniac because the wedding rings are obvious. Misunderstanding causes primary real estate to flee with embarrassing timing and executive producer laughter. Elijah’s pitch was far shriller than the soothsayer let on.

He had a dandelion for a heart and the penny was on the line and the moment suddenly stopped with trained television class. I’m still on fire. Rescue turns the derail coverage into something far more palpable, all gussied up by a red ribbon band and a smarmy orange note. The flesh wasn’t even broken by the suntan lotion. We’ll go to the emergency room all the same to see how we’re feeling and state it again with asthma partners and nail-biting tactics. Can you really know more about the seating on the train? The passenger car?

Elijah gave up his seat with all the certainty of a sultan and all the whimsy of a crooked cop behind a hospital curtain. You shouldn’t be malfunctioning so alive, you should be wreaths on a pavement slab, a ceiling underneath the cordon. Elijah knows less about Erasmus than it would seem would be good for him, he’s more of a fan of Neil’s, following his recording contracts and tendency to lay down with beautiful orange peelers. There’s a reason why things take so slow to murky themselves into milk, it’s that Elijah happened in New York and we’re still feeling the after-effects. The bastard’s gone and we’re still in his debt.

            So consider this his memorial service, pray for his soul and become a businessman father of six who strides along the glen. More than monarchy, more than penny whistles from candy stores, more than adaptation to a rear-view mirror set on hurly motion, more than a sick day we just let the matter drop. We don’t even drop it ourselves. We’re good that way, it makes us newsworthy even whilst underneath the circus elephant’s foot. It was a very sad story. Elijah.

03/03/2014 - THE PRUDE WITH THE AWKWARD GIRLS

            The prude with the awkward girls keep their distance just for the sake of the insult. It comes straight out of fire prevention ancient history, not everything can be pencil erasers with doll head covers or finely touted leather. The advertisement of runes leads only to slaughter so keep all those false prophets out of the shopping centre before the end of the game skip where Japan keeps its secret codes of cloudless skies. The backroom carries on to the dojo where all the fanatics trip up on barcodes and other dudes with their absolute lives in checks. Do they check ID? I don't know. I don't buy that sort of thing for this kind of experience.

            The voiceover reports that his recordings are idiotic and frivolous like their lawsuits. Where in the bookshop would you find the visual graphic? If you really thought about it? Shame, it would be overexciting and intensely tabletop. We have to hang out with touching sneezes extracting the friction between our unison moments. Chuck an extra nut right out of the window before the offensive red tulips barge in and scan our printers for cake crumbs. It's fine like a tarpaulin shoe lace, so irresolute not even the tall guys can control it from the side, not even to shake up the nails.

            Give our best to the fugues while the prude and his entourage chow down on rice and omelettes. Some women give in to the tradition but the specialty cafes are vastly outnumbering the quiet dust corners. Complain about the authenticity in a blue tint made up of fortune cookies. Some women massage with knives sitting and sipping in their dehydrated eyes. The tips are hot and the chalk privet is rather nice and I think you know what I mean when I say that, use those words. The hot breath just issues forth from my frothy fort lungs and glues onto cold surfaces like its meant to stay there and that is how it will always be. Don't put anything else on, it will weld to your pinched flesh. The sailor has told you to come off it, to get away from the subject before it tires you out and wears you down to the grindstone.

            They're setting sail for the optic nerve and the pitfalls are bright and beautiful with only a few fat flaps on either side of their big floppy ears, the ones they keep in the oven trays. In 630 BC everything was oversized and filled with dishwasher liquid. The hospitals were frilly and the guests came from wickedly talented places in the side of their lives. The rest of the time we have been subject to a lawful hyperactive evaluation of universal recommendations that insist on being referred to in the non-person participle. The future tense doesn't suit them nor does it seem regular to play with the cushioned blows. Some say it's like hazarding cocaine from a rhododendron bus shelter without getting your facts and alibi straight first. 

02/03/2014 - TAKE MY ADVICE

Take my advice and fire what we know so far with blatant disregard for the cold leads that run to nowhere and become writers with pristine fingertips. Be sure to bag it up, bag it all up and prepare for the arrival of the huntsman and his travesty of a travel case that rides along on rickety wheels that demand to be closed down and sold on for higher profit. Valentine’s Day has been and gone and now where do we go from here? We keep our cards rolling off the knuckles and make nutty remarks on how far progress has taken us and if we could ever be so plucky as to go back with our hair in slick slide back and our suits all tailor-made. Such a possibility seems unlikely because we have a tendency to become negative polar bears with negative chances at negotiation over fierce dinner wines and meagre breakfast wines. The gross network has put the fire under my ass and he’s just aces at the best of time so goodness only knows what he’s like right now. The bags seem to be magical, ending in vibrant curls that probably lead to speck dimensions and far-off continents in our own collective imagination. Maybe there’s a grove there, maybe an orchard filled with typified white fluid and Dreidels. This could all be in caps lock but Burton told me to stay away from such debasing talk in case your little ears can’t handle the paperwork or the travel guide semantics. I think they can and they’re just stepping all over your magnificence.

            You didn’t take my advice. You didn’t traverse the boundaries of the toy store and now you’re stuck in the backroom playing with yourself in the hopes that your knob will turn plastic and you won’t have to think again. Well I’ve got news for you, pal, that’s exactly the way they wanted you to go. By rebelling, you played into their hand and now you’re little more than a bendy raja. You’re outdated and river fresh. The wounds you have probably won’t heal because the batteries are all wilting and the safety net has become a blind man crumpled up on the pavement of the thirty-third precinct. All the bandage salesman are steering clear in case the cops catch sight of their wares and start asking about bail and the price of avoiding it these days. These days you’ll do better by having buckle shoes rather than lace-ups, the parental generation before you will feel its regression but they won’t cross the border for it. It’s your own lesson to make, your own farfetched attempt at preaching to the next few lots of kids that the grainy image on the computers is really supposed to be there. Just sit back and make yourself happy by comparing yourself to Judas. The tatty pillows are out of reach and the angelic dulcet of a compendium of red, red roses are right at your feet. Set out.

01/03/2014 - MILKSHAKE HINDSIGHT

Milkshake hindsight and the hype is all right, give height, give height. Be civil and civilised and evil like spaceships that set you back half a million green ones. The craggy ones are always unexpected and heterosexual with no news about the warfront. Honesty is the belief system, the doctrine, the reason the minotaur has been living wild in the house for lonely blonde women with red hats of companionship. Such culture shocks hire protestant prostitutes to prolong the loneliness with cervical Crystal Meth that picks you right up. God no. God know. Safe and sound like monkey business on rich folk’s buck. Let’s go way out on a limb with a good plan and a perpetrated need for cloud formation and sadistic drinking styles. Make up your mind in a while, if you think it will help the midgets bearing epigrams and sore crotches that let go of coronary espionage. Go straight to the outtakes and don’t let the green room hit you with the fucking wastrels of teary flop tops.

Love means never having to find your husband in the police station filled with hunger and vitriol and film titles with ridiculous numbers and whatever it is that keeps you single and footloose. I could make a list from a book, of books that go on for list lengths and mighty air traffic control operations that dusty the ground to get you out of the fucking way of female police officers. You all right there, love? Stop picking your ears for the city boys and brief extras that walk on to the set with floodlights reprising their pursed lips for a second death. It hurts to live and the cold glow of yellow merely learns you about duffle coats and the crazed abandonment of rain in fiery season.

Here’s your gin, gents, here’s your genesis in poison that shags with contemplative moves on a hamstring board crammed full of bleary-eyed Irishmen who fill their bellies with the felt off of pool tables. Back off, fishermen, any signs of rushing will expose chests in denim. Run for tests. Shrive the pub curtains. Get your hit now while the party themes are born aloft the flutter of flags that trail their tripartite of colour psychology. This saint creeps up maudlin surfaces and tends to expose Malibu from the Coke like Tom from Jerry. What’s the meaning of suicide, the real meaning that policeman keep from us with their veiled overbites and puffy-cheeked cynicism.

Whores are taped on drinks and thrown about the room to test your knee-jerk breaths of air across a hindsight chessboard that brings out the child in wheelchairs and the ghosts from everything else. Poor confederates, they get the shambles like pennies from the night, stacked one on top of the other like pint glasses. Now is the time to meet the ones between us and the blacker jiffs, trial and trying takes us all the way home but makes snide understatements to clean you off guard.