25/04/2014 - CO-FOUNDER, DROP

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24/04/2014 - I'VE NEVER MADE PORK CHOPS BEFORE

I’ve never made pork chops before, I’ve been boneless and far too adult. The other day I found a super sale and decided to buy them in spite of my small staring and completely different strain. I doffed my hat to the till assistant and browned her behind from either side just to show the seriousness of the matter, the recompense for black pepper and sugar and chilli powder. I left shortly after that time to seek my feature in a boil, the boil of a nameless, blameless child who can’t cook any damn thing. Most of the time when I cook pork it’s tough. It makes my wisdom teeth hurt.

Wish me well while the teaser is flavouring up. Endure the thank goodness and small, hobbled remarks about goddesses and their new episodes of family mobsters. Ship it off to Guatemala, France like a brusque real estate salesman who was cut on forced comedy. Some people like slow paces and coming to a head for velocity and a quarter. I’ve always done that strategy of turning books on their sides and putting them on top of everything else for the sake of habits and contribution to stress.

My pork chops were self-sustaining soon enough, making decisions about life-saving procedures and what constitutes ‘little by little’ and how far one might move it out per each step. Cups climb up to the sky, my cups and a few of the mugs that were left behind by my cherubim lover who physically looked at fans of personalities and emulation of those personalities. You can throw them, I can throw them and even eat off of them when the noodles are heated and sufficiently forgotten about. I cannot bow down anymore. It was good to get to know the pots and the pans and their individual power companies that turn out with bills and 48 hour notices of some thickness and durability.

It’s communicative, the clever man in his sectioned cupboard filled with memo payments and floral wherefores. My book club puts out fantastic commentaries for fighting Manga that is erstwhile all on its own station. I kind of want to read ahead and leave the others behind with their web comics and professional amoeba novels. At the same time I don’t want to spoil it for myself by contextualising going to bed. The words on the pages told me that in the beginning there was an unhealthy obsession with abscesses that couldn’t be tarnished by human hand alone so they roped in a few iguanas at the same time. Long story shortened, it didn’t work and the traitors fiddled about with car alarms until they went on all fucking night.

I’ve never intentionally bought into toboggans or sea shells. They just seem abstract by abseiling standards, just like pork chops are my undiscovered country. It’s the last vestige that makes me a difference in this big box of tissues and not a good one apparently. I am so ashamed, I really am.

23/04/2014 - YES, THE APRON WAS THE GIRL'S

Yes, the apron was the girl’s. In that case, my friend, I won’t get my thousand dollars. It ain’t going to be yours, that’s for certain. She was mighty nervous the last time I done saw her, she came on with a burning cross between her shoulder blades and yet her bones were cold. I have no recollection of Comanche roundabouts or more wood on the fire. The pouch contained a maelstrom, the pouch on the apron; patted down by shadowy hands straight out of opportunistic ape descendants. The fluttering of shotgun pellets were thanks enough for one century’s worth of semesters. I’m getting my money back through long sought after stake in magical missing. It never occurred to me to be a man’s man, I didn’t know it paid neither.

            letters come by years in the violin cases just as the lustful plates contain boiled sweets that make you comfortable in the company of a mexican failsafe reacting to the hammer reactions of north cut territory. some or other agency with trade goods and easy laughter at hard sales. lay on the hat with the feather eschewed just perfectly, just aptly for transparency. they built longhouses by stumbling on to something scarred and wet by hostile activity. there was a white sullen girl; she could have been the girl after scalps, the girl who once owned the apron that’s now in a suitcase at the bottom of the ocean. squawk, mama, you read the schoolteacher before marriage hits the marriage bed. cut it out, will ya? i sure do wish you could make a native out of the wild goose that entertains itself with inappropriate berth caused by white teeth. that’s grounds for real tough night cakes and you heard me with taking off fluid straight from the sunny funding fees or the coffee you sip when in adverts about window glazing.

            Call me ‘understudy’. The quarantine shall fill up the mounds of hashish just to show the welting winders that their depiction of Shakespearean tragedy is really no different from the claims of dominance on a weary dust bowl. Am I three slags or one? Can I fall fowl of the rector? Only the ‘understudy’ could march up and achieve such acclaimed status without doing his back right in. Slipped discs are inevitable on the stage in the past few timeframes. Well, at least for the Irish worrywarts.

            You are an asinine critter but you have some redeemable qualities that save your easel from my cannon fore. For one thing you are tall and stand on feet like hands set in stone and protracted by mathematical abstraction that trips off the despicable elements of my smoking asexual nature. Ambidexterity is happening all over the world because of the specific placement of fast girls and their humble reservoir knowledge. They refuse to accept it, they prefer to refute its every riptide and ripcord and bacon crisp. I wouldn’t touch the sodden remittance though, it has ‘ultimatum’ written all over it.

22/04/2014 - INVEST IN THE SHOP

Invest in the shop with stores and a few hat collections for good measure. Think on your mistakes as my friend and help out with boardroom planning and colourful delusions of reading and sexualised piano concertos. The greasy windows are stuck on replay on the back of a rocking horse that dips in unintended glossaries just to say aggressive morning prayers.

Do you think I should tangle it? Am I here as a professional peep and you just can’t beat a professional for peeping, especially when you’re more than a block away in the right hand. It’s impossible for disheartening to put a dint in appreciable belief, it is mutated and moves for one thing. You can do better than that, you mischievous spender, you can twerk without a comely uniform and mind that the spinning stops with the tombola.

No way to belie, no way to wake up Sleeping Beauty with eggs and bacon that hurts in passing keeling over with cuboid fluency. The congenital, primordial thermodynamics of signing magic into package paper so that the just can be trusted with cure-alls. Holy cow, the sparkles and the blooper bags! Honduras! Brrring the shameless mantelpiece forth and let it be judged by puppets in it to win it.

The bubbles are symptomatic of a fever that does the dance without heirs or looms or spaceships that translate into kites. Can you be any sweeter? With the liquid tabs? As of now the intensity is all for brow-beating concentration, for narrowing focus on an elderly flautist with horrendous values of racial learnedness. And they all want a peace of the piece while the action settles down for its afternoon nap.

Who hit snooze in a trite manner? Can buttons become Ghurkhas and for how long? The mind is adventurous because we could handle life so well if it weren’t for all the interconnected deviousness of formulated spirit. As of the duty, the politicians take the iamb for a plaintive couplet and in doing so leave its better legs by the roadside for all the preachers to remark on.

Beggars at the feast along with the ghost according to elite Parisian upper crust: master the law abiding brokers. We’re the ones who alter the land, we’re barricaded in by blown prosperity. After so long who would even doubt that the books are getting shorter because the novel is abdicating from its papal authority out of some deathly blessing to the rest of the concubines. It’s too soon to ever say OBEY to the page master and his milky ilk. Your father wouldn’t accept such travesties as his bosom creation, let alone grieve the holes in sponges of mercurial talent. TAKE ME TO SALVATION NOW THAT THELOVE IS WELL REMEMBERED BY UNSPOKEN PHILANTHROPISTS WHO’VE SEEN THE FACE OF GOD AND HIS LORDYLORDYLORDY CLIMBING FRAME, THE ONE WITH WRETCHED LIGHT-UP FEATURES. WALK BEHIND THE SWORD AS IF IT WERE A GUN WITH A COLD BARREL FILLED WITH IMAGO FISH BEARING SCISSORS TO FAROFF LOCATIONS WHERE DISTANT DRUMS ARE JOINING CONSTANTLY.

21/04/2014 - UNLESS WE HAVE BETTER TO DO

Unless we have better to do, let’s go ahead with the mainstream and trickle away the hours of the Backpack Saturnalia and prepare for the logistics. At least we have pretty assistants, stunning assistance in some cases, and we’re certainly on top of our game with gamma collars unbuttoned and casual attire worn over the threadbare cardigans that our morbid den mother stuffed into our cheeks as toddlers. She wants you to spend time with her, by the way, something about father and grandfather not being heirlooms anymore. She moved the mantelpiece half an inch to the right and then a decade to the left simply because the goblins in her skull told her to do so before wraths were incurred and such like. She’s still not right as you can probably feel through grapevines and other sunny tendrils. The vermin of the world incubate while she starts this all up again.

But just look at you, you fiendish puzzle. You deserve to play on the big daddy platter for smoking purposes. Could you be anymore viscous with the Unborn Cavity? Can’t be assuaged, won’t be assuaged by less honourable groin grommets. Later on. We could do that, of occurrence. Bright ideas just pop and then leave without even fizzling. Seems an awful waste, awful plump. Curly comments with tea and scones ready to go. Anything you say is snug beneath flannel and retreated plastic. By the sea, they say the weather’s fantabadozy. I do too, in fact.

Weekend trippers though. Have you seen what they do to the guestbook with their selection of choppers? The priests keep telling me with their drifting panty lines. Seems an awful waste to me, a creative lead like that. Nobody ever said that delegates can be chosen for their choice and the noise that that choice makes in pervaded air. Desperate measures can be pleasant if you’re deceased and hearty with business acumen. We only get it in on Sundays. No-one should knock before swallowing all the royal cleaning implements as well as the squire. He looks thicker now that the pasta dish has passed through him, looks to have bashed a bit too for flavour. How gratifying in the second. The bank cashier wants to sell before the sound of crashing curtains slays his string quartet. That’s the fiddle player and he is bowled over by the advancement of the digital age on his irritable pocket protectors. He isn’t fortunate.

Everybody rears back in foppish peppermint, it really does get everywhere so mind you grab a bun to sweep up the remaining dusty spread. We’ll come again when the menu comes out with variations of high-born discrimination. The serving will be disastrous and the handiwork shall have to shine through because their no room for even minor improvements in the previous faculty. It’s unfortunate, we know, but that’s the way of the windy season; you say alas one too many times and the police are about your necks, rubbing your noses in perimeters.

20/04/2014 - AND SO THE HARVEST HELPS ITSELF

And so the harvest helps itself to its runt of litters and the little acceptance speeches strewn about the battlefield with filed fingernails. They really didn’t wait too long for doctor’s care, they warned and waned and probably paid off a few debts along the way. Ah, mercy! Ho, police! Give way to the normal while the paraprax is away and tying its shoelaces for bootlaces and fresh beer bottles. They all await for innumeracy to fall prostrate in the trap and slate itself up to experience. Give back to life and the thief will take you for all you’ve got and the stoop that you stand on to make assurances and postulate hypothetical neuroses.

Perish the thought in flame and dry out the example for Peppier Macho and his inability to hold a long, proud note in the face of an augmented orchestra. Must we now begin to doubt the tenacity of coasters on coffee tables? Is the world really so lost? And what of heaven? We rest in cob pipes and the chin-scratching stars that smoke them with reverence and upload the feed on their websites. All those thoughts flying for the sake of the trolls and their slammed dunks. Must I know begin to monitor the musket fire whilst my forearm is trembling in hellish necromancy? Grant someone else their life for their livelihood, I want and desire a nap of black oil. Dream the dream as my mother used to say but not to me, to my father and his fleet of reindeer. The labour camps devoured his patience like a swift, sharp back of the hand.

It’s been a while since anyone shackled the monkeys to the seaside rocks and I think it’s about time. Not because I’m some sort of sadist, it’s what’s good for them; they don’t listen to anyone, they just trespass and act morose in front of maudlin people just to see what the experimentation will affect. So not too nice if you’d pardon me saying.

            Quite frankly the generation has seen enough of performances, nerve-racking and clamorous. The generation wants to bring up the harvest again, wants to charm the moon into rotating on its axis for a bit just to show the big blue marble how it should be done. Thousands upon thousands of automata would show up for that show and shoe in a few casual remarks about polite repeats that start in winks and end in blinks. The world is falling in half and the maker bag becomes you with silken patchwork and gears that grind and erase most grungy forms of radiation. At least the girls are sexually voracious, at least these girls are. The lease is up for the rest of mankind, it was written in the sponge and the brackish water. Man made bubbles so that he might disturb the water distribution and have something to pop with but a touch. The arms of his proposed father are about to enfold him tenfold. Gory.

19/04/2014 - QUIP AFTER QUIP

Quip after quip about reasonable doubt – where does it take the mind really? Does it steer the monkish parts around in a steady circle or does it merely make apostles out of our larger toes? Question after question concerning treasonable ideals – which is the saddest cut of all? Who makes up for the fact that the rest of us remain so jaded and probably won’t even climb out of our weighed coffins for the soil piling up overhead? Why did we let the things get so out of hand? Where is the postulated plan? Is it a map? Is it a map really? Do the fighting and succeeding to the sound of a heavy piano, filled with custard powder and gold bullion. The thrill of the last one to fall will sacrifice the manic hair as swept by vigorous winds from the North and chastity from the sweetened South. It’s the last fault to fall and breaking winners are becoming a broader concern as well as wider. Push with fever, you despicable layers of later, better hunters; the kind that sniff out nectarines in yards of unapproachable mood mud. Weary travellers prosper for the days before being away from the time appropriate.

More on the swap later. Who didn’t ask for the hunters? Who specifically didn’t ask? Why agitate them during the drum solo? Surely you wait for the guitar solo and hope for a good kneeling spot ahead of the choir. Cherubs with crinkly voices are dark doctoring at poor puppetry. Give it all to me? No wait, just give it all to me. Vilify later, at the dawning of dragon culture. Or is it draconian? Either way I’m not getting paid enough to hone this shit, I’ll let it trip off the sewage pipe and prepare for the backlash like the good little sailor I’ve proven myself to be. This is the quest, the benefit and the holy trinity that wasn’t made for the tempo or try out on a sports field somewhere. I have travelled across the land, searching for creatures of poor pluck and lame defence. Our hearts were courageous, our Catholicism sodden and slicked back. It’s always been a dream of the last one that you learn the drama society’s phone number, the pulled mileage it will grant you will graduate the rest of your meagre abilities to pristine levels of excellence and sometimes triumphant fare.

Ask the guitars now. Ask the drums. Pretend that destiny was full of truth and same-sex marriage and preteen consumerism or pretext consumption. Ask. As of now I’m just a lonely tree-dweller with his hands in peddler pockets as I whistle out the blankest pathway to fortune and crazy horses without the big gay musical at the end or the shoes that fit. With or without you, we’re going far out. That’s right, I am becoming we through the power of prompt thinking with remote controls as enlisters of future followers from my TV set. I haven’t paid the bills in a dank age.