11/04/2014 - WHAT COMES OVER YOU

What comes over you is a special thing that leaves irritants on your face and sometimes on your butt. You should really hang out with whatever floats your suction cup and don’t strand yourself in a fashion outlet. It’s too bad that red dresses don’t come without bear shit anymore. Sometimes you ask too many questions about biker dudes and sometimes you flinch for the hedonism of your country. Come over here and sit on the edge of danger lest the cans shall hit you with untold ferocity. Either tripping figures into getting better or hairy hands and sexy snout. Say where. Say that revival is a stance on ineptitude and you will horn the blast and honk the date into a smattering of oxen existence points. Cut the brake lines and end the world for several yellow joggers, namely ones who are lactose intolerant. Stomachs gurgle all over the antelope and warnings come a few seconds before suicidal tendencies take the place of body hair.

You’re not as fast as the first scrumptious one, you not as happy with torturous blithe and whole-handed transformation of pretty boy instinct. They snarl and can’t tell the difference between dance troupes and theatre troupes. Going wet won’t do much for the denim washers or their ilk pack. Spots behead corpses more often than you know, you just won’t admit it to your sweaty self. I’m getting tired, truly tired of all this signature writing and getting back to the basics for quiet reasons that fuck me over for moving on.

She tried to kill herself, you know. The woman that you can’t remember seeing on market day that everybody else seems to remember. She’s famous beyond her years like the removal of a famous shirt or perfume on a tanned cardigan. Look at the leaving of the friend zone, look upon it as a security panel long since oppressed by feverous hand tattoos. Do you mind getting that? The weed is in the top drawer and will spin the socks from your mind. The volcano’s alight and doing true things for dead sorrow. Joy cannot live without the spark of purest magma striking again visions of Erasmus making do with the little his mother left to him in the will. We’re all rock stars as it turned out. Have a drink to the high school prom, fill it with dreams from the soapy mindset of a mouldering beat that kept out from the rest of the score. Don’t go without belonging to something, don’t tie yourself down to an answer for a symbol.

            This is the elision of narrow creeks on white suspicion. Main events include brown actors, blue actresses and a handful of takers who do whatever the gowns are meant to do. As the disco balls shovel it in and the targets refresh along the backbone of the scream, the poll will be finally read out and it will be absolutely unexpected and only a meddlesome glory will employ an aged ass crack.

10/04/2014 - ANY COUSINS, ANY BROTHERS-IN-LAW

Any cousins, any brothers-in-law. I mean another pussycat got out and now the staff at the diner is pausing to inhale smoke until the bomb ticks over and everything comes to an irresponsive rest. Laziness in suits: a hell of a way to live life. We are zoot. That’s great for kidding but not good for a healthy diet of handling baggage or washing dishes. Don’t let the dreams of a space cadet hold you back from being a true Colombian, the big bucks are just groaning to be with you. That’s what all the high profile newspapers are saying; they view life more differently than I and rarely bring machine guns back for storage and selection. If anything happens to the head while one’s luck is pushed, the incredibly sexy moron will stop making eyes and start chewing out retirement.

Any auntie, any kitchenware, any article of individual symbolism. I mean idiomatic moments that play out with the cut and thrust of partly daunting lovers who seek to love the autoerotic transgressors in spite of their mannerisms when holding scissors. Everybody’s got to learn sometime but the silence does seem to overcome ogres and deafening sickness like rickets crammed full of starbursts and the remnant materials.

Memories last for as long as the daydreams don’t. Anyone can do it, it’s nothing to be proud of, not really. This is the edited version with audio dribbling in sync with encyclopaedic knowledge of barriers and penetration of those many barriers. If you know their movements, their people will attack the lovers with starvation tactics and liquorice TNT. Don’t believe a word they say, they only show what little people know and everybody already knows exactly how much bite they have. Bravo, you snake in the grass. By God, the presence of mind among you is staggering which is to say that the spies are all out in arms and numbers. They go back to their positions, do what they have to do. How right. How utterly, utterly clear in purpose and drive. You want a deal which is predictable but nevertheless acute and an executor’s delight.

            So long as you’re with me, you’ll be sorry about virginity and the relentless ambling of fiery wolves with their blunts set on narcoleptic. The leaping will cause our teeth to bear and the leaves on wheels will run ragged like snack-happy music. No-one is meant to accept the lost holiday because it’s a dandelion in full blood with throttles twisted like veins and finger food. Here I am with the hormones cutting like ape shit paper cuts: slake the piano chord before it goes everywhere as an act of medical arrival. All this growling for baseball will do the country no good. You guys just eat and flick and eat and flick and write bad scripts that involve skating as a magnanimous subplot which won’t be addressed at later dates in anyone’s life. The conifer trees have their own selective tendencies and they won’t ever go back on them.

09/04/2014 - ANOTHER HIRSUTE NOTE FORBEARS

Another hirsute note forbears the fine collection of vermin and the adept trades that come out of it like spouts of independent automata. He’s the one you should arrest, that chap over there, the one wearing YESTERDAY on a chain. He lives in a cabin, comes from it like a joust and proceeds to victimise the wranglers and peddlers for the sake of old man dignity. Ain’t the world a remarkable place? A fishy beauty overcome with maddening mod cons and salad dressing. The brawls stink up the air for monsieur. Swarm and you tag along with the travesty, making jobs for all the little chaps named Al and his jailbird friends. The brand of bran turns a man, makes him out of his skin with sloth. MANY is a word that is ripe for the nicking according to the popular censor, the one that runs most tall women off their feet for the sake of printed fanfare. Respectability doesn’t get a look in these days, what with all the hullabaloo and larks rising to the occasion and the threatening Battenberg cake display. Never concede defeat to the likes of which, always bear arms against a sea of troubles as you would a quilt stitched by all your favourite aunties from history. They probably existed at some point in time and space and just because they appear fictional grants you no right to be such a snaky young so-and-so with your mentality up to here and you dress size somewhere along there. We get along lovely and will get by without the harsh notations of your connotations.

Where the right-handed people all rely on tent poles to get around and classic credit offers to dry out their bones for the shapes of fouls to come. It's bullshit but we're all cannon. They're the ones who can be killed and often by raccoons crammed full of sweets and self-grandeur. Make up the mind with white people enforcement and then switch to the next to the fourth to declare shenanigans. The wings make all the map-reading so lonely and thick like a thrice forest during a bathroom break that sinks your teeth into balloon popping minigames that last precisely for as long as a full tilt takes to irritate the objective. Go back, it's not safe for water features or birds and we have been led to believe that you are both of them merged and melded into collaborative amalgamation. There are no ways to flip such cigarettes, to tell such lines like lies only without the rudeness and scorpion bling.  You did this for me? How tributary, how dorky, how hammered on and rock hard. Buzzing and shrugging all the way to bedtime and right beneath the sheets while the rest of the neighbourhood formulates wicked flip tricks for tuna farms that worry the longest. This isn't on any more, this is time-telling and we already banned it. It wasn't really part of the big game theory, it was a nubbin.

08/04/2014 - THE CHIMES OF MUSKET FIRE

The chimes of the musket fire: I wasn’t even there. I was kissing the fish tank with my hands soaked in comedy and a fair blob of tragedy bobbed on the bridge of my nose throughout the arduous process which was really annoying as I remember it. The matter was sirloin though but still the bloodied cheek newly transposed itself onto my face and it wasn’t nearly enough to pay me back for all the dirt and grime and sandy sod I had to endure at my feet. The shells were few and far between and my pocket watch was ticking over for Linda and her broad array of blue dyed shirts. She told me once, join us and then proceeded to act all shallow-like with straggly mesmerism and fetching cabaret to make it all seem virtually presentable. The kitchen drawer suffered the most as I choked on the goofy climes that inevitably shot across the bows and sterns of my numerical limbs.

What’s the license plate number? You’re bound to ask yourself and also bound to kick yourselves when you hear how simplifying the answer is. All the pretty dears are gone so we trotted out the slag to deliver your prize, she’s molten and carries around beepers and calling cards and various cute apparel. They like me for my hair, they like her for the same reason even though her’s is significantly different. And wiry. The times are reverting back to their Christian allegories and that doesn’t really spell much for the past links or the blinking nipples our nuptials promised. The runes that wed our elite organisation together made you the fluffer and the rest of us kingpins who don’t even need fluffers because we can fluff ourselves with a blank verse poem. The days are still as quaint as ever and don’t even muss up our suits our the suit laces that we absolutely insist upon being the upper class and all that, wot wot. Our masks need no chains to hold them in place, we merely have to look at them to prioritise them. Once there’s a hierarchy, there is no chance that the cast will return for the finale. And I’m glad.

Donna and Murray are probably shagging the carpets in the back of the shoe shop, they hate to be so tucked away but their coats fit nicely and the toggles are adorned with latex whiz threads that spoon and sparkle in the contraceptive light. The shows go on and play out with horrible trumpeting that marvels at its own minute destructive tendencies through cognitive hours of unreasonable powers. Work along to the beat and the masters are paid in plaid whilst the rest of us get something of actual worth: a game plan. We’ve got it roughed out already, let’s see what good it’ll do us to bend over backwards whilst we’re striving primarily left just to suit the times and uniform military formation regulation. Just pop on a cheerleader’s outfit and go slap on a good video.

07/04/2014 - HELP A GUY OUT

Help a guy out by hermetically sealing the chair focus group member. This is not the guy that you are helping so rest assured but please don’t actually rest because that would be contrary to the task required of you at hand. The only way to wind the day is to tape something on a VCR and act like it’s live until the point where your eyes become pebbles of blackened source magic as produced by the burnt-up stand-up comic at the end of chides of the heavens. That last thing is a movie but we can’t seem to find it anywhere because that would prove invaluable to our personal war effort. The raging of battles requires more bloodthirsty hiccupping and incitation of a conjurer’s respectability. This shirt-wearing contest is really tiring him out, right from the logic to the tips of his ears.

            As per usual the printer is spitting scanner bits right into our faces as we work through the night in our desperate attempts at reclaiming a sense of dignity through prosaic chitter-chatter, something which none of us expect to work and yet everyone climbs upon every chance that they get. I’ll see the ambulance in my dreams and hold the cadaver there in polite resurgence of the fact that the rumour is but a smaller bit of the very same dream that is currently swelling the key lobes of my submariner brain. The tools of the trade are yet to assign responsibility to disposal methods so keep out of the way of making sure for, as we all know, the totems and map imagery can be inspiring to all the wrong kinds of people rather than the slick-hided.

            The dog is on the verge of papier-mâché and really wants to tell us about it with hoity-toity flourish and breath mints that go on for absolute ages and yet no longer than it takes a lover to sigh at the other’s visage. The showers will come straight out with it and call up the national guard in the hopes that it’ll make you sweet on them and see how sweet and edible their flesh can be to the living. It isn’t gainful, it’s painful. Erasure happens so often that the paint tins can be fashioned into elaborate lie detectors via the simple act of faltering over stumbled deliberations that would take years to recompense in any case.

            As one woman to another, please benefit from my knowledge: pornography is a quaint pastime. There’s nothing inherently destructive about it but it does degrade in places and won’t be biodegradable until the day they can illustrate exactly why men need it to keep their brains sharp like tachyons fresh from the grindstone and buffer. Eat, drink and be mal but please don’t give into Brimley fun just yet, not while the ruddy still live without axes in their hearts and a song where their special lobes used to be. THE BATTLE GOES ON…AND ON…AND OUTSIDE OF PUBLIC KNOWLEDGE… AGAIN.

06/04/2014 - THIS PLACE IS INFESTED

This place is infested, crawling with fire engines and megaphone motherfuckers with their ties all out of place. Drugs have dwindled here whereas hearing is at an all-time ambivalence. They tell you to fudge yourself, the police in this time; they command you to be more than enough for most French-speaking nations filled with stiff dicks and sorry ships that only head out to Rotterdam.

 

You stay right next to me while I sign out for help amid the cold blue light. You'll stay with me forever, no matter how much I may or may not resemble the wire netting that surrounds Jesus in most post-modern depictions of business essentialism and the pop culture references will just drive you wild in the knee-knocking, talent show department. Bullets fly freely and the bubble bath is in fact big enough for a third and unmolested party. The gun corralled enough out of my firing range and now wants to suck up into the nearest available trowel. Well good luck to bad rubbish as the waterfalls whisper post-coitus. The orange van commands you to jump and cancel every show that you never attended in the first place. Since the novelty of paperwork has become a wash, we shall go about our survival in a half-size crib. The sudsy water and the heavy wooden planks don't tend to be. a problem but, alas, elbow newspaper.

Rewards are coming in while the rest of the wild want to share their own conversation zapping. It's prissy and not an attempt to buy the green drugs for a raid on liquorice recursion and their fusty invitations. People always complain about streams and wind-up merchants that sometimes sink within them because of severe pushing. Take advantage of the conversation and quickly. The beta will incur charges that increase the likelihood of your moniker. This is a pocket watch before you roll your eyes. Restrain them, constrain them, moniker them. This is the very hard difficulty of the confusing element that is usually attacked by Mobius strip enthusiasts. A lot of people see you and think of the renewed reaper and its expansion of hips.

 

Consider where we are. Are we patched in? All I know is that we’ve been playing it a ton like true crusaders in a natural storyline of relevant chance. There’s more to get out of it through listening and rewarding according to independent developers of collective material. The steam troopers are going all square, they vote the best and the most eccentrically through crowd-sourcing within twenty-eight days. Thank the elders but do not touch them, just the itchy parts of their cloak. You might heal them before date night thus causing all promotional merchandise to come across properly and higher up in circumstance. Through the collective process, we expect to make money as regularly as radar noises or seconded IPs that aren’t too interesting or clear for the sickening excuses and violently ill intentions. We’re at the very top of the library, going the opposite way.

05/04/2014 - THIS IS HOW

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