07/05/2014 - ELECTROCUTION ON A MASS SCALE

            Electrocution on a mass scale would work the skinflints to te bone and tape their green, green grass at home to te chins were the buttercups usually go. Just as we shuffle around British India, te swarm is treated randomly and viciously and curmudgeonly like some sort of flatulent pigeon with great harmonium skills. Te buzz goes on like petty officers, with ten situations under their belts and a scar on the sequins of their trousers. Te barrel of a rifle makes for a ram raffle that typifies greasy cartridges for terrible people with metallic, chromatic fangs of error singing.

            Safe conduct across the Bordeaux while the wily rebels open fire on all wine racks. Bodies of work hacked to pieces for the fruits of a laborious afternoon involving only one single spot of high tea and not even a polite note from the full-lipped hunchbacks of yesteryear's bedroom tax. I'm relevant in a dreadful living space. Cordially.

            Te chief correspondent is now in HD and carries revitalising yoghurts precisely because te appendage in the contract dictated it to be so in lustful gaze of te lustful accountants and their screechy, Neolithic sisters with their lurking racism.  Te salivating is te true salvation salvo.

            Pour out te lemonade and sprinkle it with sandwich filler. Make frail te swimming pool and react spitefully to lower temperatures. God rewards intervention because he knows that face over there and te resemblance is truly remarkable for a bastard such as he sees at that witnessed moment. Te streets are not safe from recollection, crawling out from te worm patch of yet another brawl. Look upon this fine blot of package information and catch te gentleman before he regains status through te power of jail-tattered chests. Te girl who smiles like a cat catches no isles on her absentia nick. It was te women who arose to te soothing sound of grog on te po-po radio.

            Look upon your sins before te pencil case will name te trade of its supercilious owner. Could it be that he's some sort of shallow apparition in lonely dance shoes that were just to slovenly to pay for themselves. Retract statements while te going is honing one's craft for a much older man to fight without te benefit of heavy artillery and other metaphorical staircases. We've already seen te people rise once, what else can they actually do without tying back their hair and ploughing through cunning videogames about heel football.

            Te goal of te attack will rankle te start all te way to te finish line because none of its true, precisely because none of its beyond te understanding of little people. Te journey goes on with football music blaring and motor access disabled with unrepentant clangs of a dinner bell. Don't hurt them, you foul-breath critics of critics, don't hurt their ample rotundity, their presence of mental forgery, their intense scribbling of translation and te rough soup it mortifies with its flora tissues and its fauna redactions.

06/05/2014 - APPLE PIE THANKS

Apple pie thanks. Text me your number concordantly and the Black Cats should have no problem to speak of, they’ll just sit on the third rail and sputter with their top lip undone and their bottom lip wound round into a fanciful bowtie. The misandry of the act shall be indeterminable but all your dollies will continue to say that they love you with fluffy ears and the light hurts us with cute moments.

‘We’re your top-knot friends and we know where it’s at, usually in the basement. We’re free for sound bites and don’t really have the time or the wealth to judge, we’re still in our pyjamas and moving along the shadows as if they were cake on wheels. We’re Navy Seals, we’re SAS, we’re the dollmakers, we’re the conjoined teeth of a man who collects primary real estate for kicks. Leave the learned man on, he might turn out to be a friend with a lovely set of buttocks for you to establish with egg yolk. We’re not gay, we’re ex-military and lacking razors for cleaning our buttresses.’

That tykes are irresponsible is a commonly held dictation on foggy days that cut up dresses and dangerous homing instinct. She’s never done anything like that before, she’s usually a curly childminder with hills to climb under and ceiling grates to defy with earth-shattering broom handles. Are you still there, tykes? The clothes are telling of friendship and the wanting of beady eyes all on you for your bearded moments.

‘You say that you were hungry, that only chocolate ranks would do but we can’t identify chocolate ranks because we are just a Disposition League used to lie about sinking link. You make lunch in wondrous ways. You go on as quick as you can and get your tools ready for the yearning of suffered posteriors. You’re a wonder to behold when we put those ceiling grates back up with grafted skin and martyred plastic. You know all the old fools, all the army peacocks, all the aggrieves you can cause with just a few poorly-CGI’d rats and plain red screwdrivers. Lambs of chickens, turkeys of mutton, scissors on a stick. You make it all happen.’

 I can hear noises that signify that indications are correct about the forecast that the trees have it that everything will be fine, hunky-dory, exemplary, timely and not at all grey around the gills. The coy mistress of badgers makes herself special every morning just to show that not all handymen are made equal, they trick their clothes and cut up the sound bites into iddy-biddy bits of silver on mint-free pillows.

            ‘I am worried about her, we are worried about her, you are coming home to itchy murder. I am a growling dog, we are a nibbling pack, you are ready for the inevitable drum roll. I am at my nerve’s end, we are at the end of the pinch, you are yourself in derelict tunefulness. I have started, we are starting, you starts.)

05/05/2014 - BARRICADE THE NEW HOSPITAL

Barricade the new hospital and you make the chief of surgery into your own personal torture device. She is a newfound leader with her legs gradually transmitting themselves into dance data and then something decidedly more psychotropic before the deadly deed is done and all that’s left are manly, hairless thighs. Why would you even want to end up being in charge of him/her? His parlour? Her chateau? He is a bastard/bitch that gets new maybes every time with his running water jokes and remarks about blind beauty as judgement at a poorly-laid table in the dark of somebody’s lamplight. Do you agree with our list? Surely you will derelict yourself with the deed pole and terrify what’s left of yourself with the possibility of rejoined numbers making themselves into their own brand of numerology, the kind only sold in select supermarkets thanks to a keen advertisement strategy. She is now a he and he is a mercenary for them, laying down firearms right in the path of their fat cat enemies to steal their babies before the soot’s even lost its sheen. Have a run-up, see what that good does you and how many product placements you’ll getfollowing it, with you deep voice and rich hands. Love makes all the Asian tartness blow down the hatchets from the walls they’ve been embedded in for the sake of Old Lang Syne. The chief of surgery has a special hat made entirely out of evil castration shears in the hopes that it’ll scare scum like you away from perfected folk like me, she’s too much chin hair to realise that the silky smooth skin shall dip apples right into the carbuncle of my limbless body. It hurts to respect other people and their wasted flexing, all their wastedflexing while the actor concerned about the river is selling letters to past relatives for a simmering finder’s fee of $50%. My offer still stands and that will see you appreciated by all your kindred for at least a quarter of a month each decade because that’s exactly the kind of power I presume to wield and assume that I have no limit to, I am that reckless and it’s paid off really well so far but you’ll no doubt come across me and tell me to take it all away and share some of it with the chief of surgery. Well, no, I don’t tax her to be honest so why should she get these wonderful trinkets? Her bikini zone doesn’t pass my kilter and, as you all know, I have several superheroes in my pocket, ready for the international market of saying goodbye to the sleepiest march hare as he dies in a sitting down position as if he, ironically, just heard about somebody’s death and it really hit home. You do get glimmers of hope in the white and glass buildings but the computers still cut your hair, your ‘p’s and ‘q’s short for its electronic amusement. The chief of surgery even heard it whir.

04/05/2014 - MY CRAP IS INSIDE

My crap is inside the internal means of death and on the bridge along the clock tower. My biggest issue is that when you read the comics, the growl inside the administration buys some of the stuff by omnibus. I generally start reading them by the window, crying over the body of a figurative solicitor that traumatised the Philharmonic pivot. I’m never going to see the scene again until this one comes around to make things seem so emotionally epic while spiders are caught between the connections. I’ve nearly killed the meaning. I’ve never murdered more than I have with the last straw, which is the investment. Let’s just say the victim; he went too far in his merry old bus. The whiplash effort hurt the cleverness that burgeoned in his dickish brain.

You are tied down to the lavender and begging for ten years to pass in automatic correction. The cruelty plays a part in the postulated first movie but its role is negligible. The director found the best way to film it but the script wasn’t solid enough for her kindness or her masticated depth. We do not pack enough blood. It’s a total injustice that makes the sinister anxious. This is the sacrifice of the second picture, it gives away too much, a thousand villains spoil the throat and impede the oratory. We want to eat the cheerful while the funerals remain floppy so that we can cut away with the graduation speech. Some little jungle somewhere, that’s the flack of the feckless. Shame on you, you ninnies! Nothing to see here?

The studio are producing a new form of card-carrying, they want a little bit of drama, no more than a microscopic droplet. She is a super genius that goes on and off and death eventually wimps out of the forty years it takes to demonise a man. It’s mishmash, a hodgepodge, a rivalry in the works for the fear of it. We walk past all the costumes and sit there, right at the end to band together for VCR programming. I’ve been having a hard time with my parents, they were shorter and more coherent a few weeks ago but the radioactive speakeasy sold off all their remaining shares. Eight inches in set-up, the centrepiece of greasy Laundromats. It shouldn’t be that anymore.

The shelter is what killed the wagging tail of stupid scripts. Wow, I just, I don’t even, I can’t think about the drive back. The uncles have clean hands, shining like little gems of complication and concentration. The focus is what really crushes the mind, it flicks on like a faucet and doesn’t stop flowing until the afterparty reaches the height of pomposity. Betrayal is like a tack, it pains me to thank it significantly without the aid of another pair of hands. So we’ll go down to the temple, hold the beer glasses above our heads and wonder why all the historians have gathered around the table near the pool table, sharing stories of verbal abuse and ducking beneath the heaths.

03/05/2014 - NARCISSIST

Narcissist, you fell into the pit. You are the narcissist with his back in piece and slices of his spinal column prepared in a tope bag with the hopes of rock music yawning outside of its maturity. There’s a lazy method to all this art, a glitter ball filled with graphic novels about what you came to this planet for in the first place. She’s buying a sign from the wall, that woman over there, she has a sweet certainty to her two select movements. She befriends all the songbirds, we’ve noticed. Narcissist, we have misgivings about her relationship with you and it makes the feelings come thick and fast without the protection of safety goggles.

After leaving the crying game with the rings of smoke and their vocalised straightness, it makes me wonder about the trout trawler and the ways that it gathers the nets to its whispery chest. If we call up the piper he might reason the length and breadth to echoing laughter and canned reactions to that clipped moment. If there’s a bustle to be had, we shall notice it and you, as the narcissist, will be sent out on your jollies to counteract the problem via the innovative methods of deckchair physics. Erasure by Erasmus doesn’t come close. Your head is humming because the nurse has met with the piper and he’s already settling down to a cacophonous brood of riff-shaped toddlers.

Wheedle away the hours with hippy rigs, flower power towers that rise up all the way into the blended rarefied air for the sake of old women talking about their sex life in a candid and unrepentant way. The show wants to show and the shower wants to listen very warmly to your conquered lies and whimpering rolls of the duct tape. Say whoa to the saxophone and play back the audio, it will tell you plenty about the state of most of your sleeves and how the cufflinks feel about it. Here’s a hint: so unsure. As the eyes call out for death rattles and general screams without rhythm and salient applicability. Time cannot emasculate the mending of green soldiers into kind ignorance. There’s no comfort to be had from Neil, he hasn’t been around as much and yet he isn’t quite the fool for quitting all this.

You remain the narcissist and the consolation is tonight. Lose the crowd and hurt the things that you want to name if only to feel the shapes you form with your lips. Who’s going to dance again? Who’s pretending to be the Jewish actor at the end of a wasted film? The dancers are trying their darnedest to stack up the notations with the bones on a 3D landscape. You are so wrong to leave me alone with the cast off and the literature so expository. Mark the thirteen ordinary British men abandoned on an island to peel bananas for the duration of their measly stay. Do they think that walls can sprout out of plain sand?

02/05/2014 - THE VICAR'S A BIG DEAL

The vicar’s a big deal in some circles. Instead of freaking himself out, he streams videos of himself reading sermons to the already delivered in their homely apartment in the sweltering heat. The vicar knows that you are anxious and agoraphobic and filled with vodka shots, too much like his painful childhood on the way to chilling down. We went over there to deal with nerves in the swamp for his Grindhouse style, his turnstile preaching that makes us all wake up in a great mood. He has height because of the robots in their tattered green stripe shirts. They make twenty bucks per month but you can donate a certain amount of money to ensure that its wings are properly lovable.

 

The vicar’s wife is constantly in touch with the breach, even became with child because of it. The vicar hadn’t touched her in donkey’s days but we managed to get the magic in her and just hung out with her like bros until the eating commenced and the night became apparent. If we seem wide awake its entirely because of her endless complaints about streaming and how it hurts her areolas. We all want a piece but we all can’t have a piece while she’s murmuring like a salary man. It is this clause that is the basis of a letter of a memo of a doomed development in the cinematic rift. Part of the headsets we built around them is the vicar’s intellectual property. He has since been given an equity stake. It’s unfortunate but he shouldn’t have to live on wood anymore, even less so his lovely wife. She lays down the forecasts and builds on the acid wash.

 

Recovery, the vicar and the vicar’s wife’s son, is on a rider’s report and way different from the rest of the infinite runners. Recovery is most often played by his parents when rails are visible and easily accessible, they call their actions during this arbitrary period mega comfy. We support his ripped fashion pants and the highlights of the funny parts. Just the thought of it leaves Recovery wide awake at night, clutching at his father’s dog collar. His father’s dog collar is named Rambles and it mostly delivers the vicar’s throat muscle throbs in bite size chunks. Recovery loves Rambles and couldn’t conceive of a world without his colicky presence.

 

The next person along on the pew knows nothing about all this; they’re just here to pray and be prayed upon by a hopefully polite and respectfully distant Lord. He must wear white and have spare contacts in his pocket or else the whole theology comes crashing down for this individual and his coffee stained jacket. He once dabbled in fag ends but has since seen the light and repented for the sake of a woman who reminds him, much like his mother, of his paternal grandmother. He collects wasps and wouldn’t be caught dead in a child’s bedroom, mostly because of the working blisters he got the last time.

01/05/2014 - DON'T BE SO GOOD

Don’t be so good, this year from that place beyond the pail that cannot be fetched because it simply refuses to be fetched. It will just go and do all kinds of mind-breaking numb downs that will loosen up the cognitive booms and we all know what that means

an eleven rank

a hermit spank

hands that fit inside

interviews with Danny McBride

patter cake

platter cake

baker’s man

barker’s man

the source of all umpteenth

molars on the front teeth

half the pop

stop a stop

roar

ROAR

Grid iron

Physical Psion

Abandonment

I’m so so absorbent

I’m coming down

I’m combing dun with a fever

Oestrogen

This is the word and the hearing is the entire courtroom procedure because that’s about as much as anyone would care to listen to without the aid of a box of hogs or miniature ladies and gentleman to applaud wherever the sea goes in its avid pursuit of its off-the-hook father, a coffee barista. Your Italian is atrocious and that makes me an expert in all your other failings because twice is a fuck and I fuck with you twice and with duality too. Concede as you will and I shall shudder and send a skull to the capital of my toilet bowl. I send all my rubbish down that way, trash goes into the open-ended remarks of passing papal representatives. Of course I wouldn’t think this if I weren’t a chill arm at a long game of Chuckle out West. You’d do well and you would do well to do as much as you can be in a cave with neon and space heaters to establish the decade.

Come here a second, you, you’re the one who broke the memory into your arse on live television, I’m telling you its glorious as defensive interpretation but you’re being hypnotised by a paedophile because its safer than becoming Pocahontas. My titters are even expecting no groups to form around; this way, man in blue shadow. Now this is the point where

All twelve of my lovers

And I mean all twelve

Shall be given forth into the ocean,

She looks like a waggled autograph on a baker’s dozen with eggs as a totally applicable side order. Now the winter comes, the ticking along gets harder and more difficult and significantly less easy. This ain't no Sunday picnic, it's

Remember November?

How it isn't a flame.

A succulent ember,

a signified aim.

The piece

the Piece

THE PIECE

the piece

The Police want to talk about judgemental prissiness

they want to go into rehab for formalising

they want their naked messiness

a subject to unsearched normalising.

You're a cue,

a queue to plant drugs in,

a cure lacking

foundation

paying no heed

to the clue

the struggling in

halved verdicts

calved edicts

felony possession

DELIVER

It appears that we have a wholly different matter to attend to on the back of this buttered boat. The sails aren't quite meeting in the middle so we'll need to do something about that/