14/05/2014 - CAUGHT HIM THE OTHER DAY

Caught him the other day with his lease back to front for criminal facial expressions. This is exactly what would happen in a play, to play and to pore over character and the people who they’re based on who still haven’t yet paid. It’s not the dome that canters into problematic bodybuilding, it’s the degradation of the state of decayed desecration. The mathematics are all there and staring for a good shameless while for the elderly husband in case he wants to choke or bruise his savings some more. Flushing his toilet’s like going into another world where the water is blue-green and the film constantly playing is of a Bongo drum being steadily yanked apart by the power of centrifugal force…

…it’s not every day that lying down on beach towels can be perceived as a hostile retainer for the blameless racket ball game. They’ll clean you nails and sniff them later. Now maybe I can return to my fucked-up, fucked-off bit of pool. I had conversation with a side of salads. By myself, I can’t catch up, I have to avenge my warped and wrapped-up heart blanket for the same of a realistic moment before his father tracks you down and makes you eat quilt for the rest of your curtain-twitching and blind person mocking. I didn’t make me want to mate with any hexagons so that you can’t harass  me. I’ll throw the bottle against her head but it might not keep the water running. Two more emotional and intelligent to learn about a luncheon and delicate hands.

May smoking paperclips guide you to a restless sleep with the very thought of a short story liar attending to superhero facsimiles from dramatic tension to dramatic tension. You rearrange and see the rectangle in all things, the indispensible material of makeshift and shirtless livery like a bad mother. Too cool for chiropractic school, too radical for the seventh age of The Width Colony. Well-remembered be/the rules of history/a crusty principle without phone tails or romantic inclination that would otherwise turn haberdasher whilst eating ginger winter via its reddening snowflakes and drowned out power chords. Books on a far off world = novels involved in the climate change + personal recuperation. Angels have big teeth and even they have something hard-up to say about the vitrifying plausibility of this workaday event on videogame butter churns. The daughter inundates immunisation jabs just to be the one she loves for a few matter-of-fact seconds. Set the plates to the higher table.

Diary of mist and westernised tulips I bloom. Comedians falling flat on their bodices. Numbers wrinkling because the value has chipped away in time for slanderous remarks in a past life. Good to see you when you really mean have at thee, ignoble trout. Sleep tight and make comedy a fixture of love and hydrogenised atoms. Come straight for the house, leave away from the dollies. You hear a word and that word starts the whole thing up again. Six weeks. 

13/05/2014 - UNTOUCHABLE BUSHES

Untouchable bushes filled with men who cannot cry for longer than it takes to share a video moment or a snaggletooth requisite on a fine Friday rind afternoon. It’s all a lovely, bountiful matter of fact opinion that shackles the staff room from deck chair to deck chair, from one corner of the tuck shop to the magnanimous other. The smilers are tying their shoelaces and preparing their weaponry for elfin war on a grander scale than a schema from the cognitive development of psychological theory without necessary application. A man cries into his hands over the things that he wants but can never quite cling onto without society coming down hard on his dodgy shoulder blade, a woman just clinks her wine glass and stomps out all outsourced power for the quick intake of breath that has since become a form of short, sharp motherhood for their languorous number.

I was actively paid not to care about the political climate for as far as the work shirt and stuffy worth trousers go but other than that I can see no reason why I can’t babysit your prepared agenda for a few months, most of which I can and will be found sweeping the fallen leaves away into the playground for the little blighters to play with in their inept obsession with standing taller than their stuffed teddy collection. Repeat this and you shall receive more than a clock, you shall receive a radio with imprints and engravings and all other forms of romance expressed through the chisel which cannot otherwise be defined due to elliptical legal procedure. The audience has the game by the hollow and the demon hunter hasn’t even finished his pack of faggots yet, he really likes them faggots and revels in telling everyone just what they are and how they taste to the sorry and formerly girly.

The lid has been blown and the dice it is caught in the upwind and won’t land until a specific political figures is imprisoned without trial and without a warty ignorance to call established linguistic theory. The shower has stopped running its stranded complaint box for fear that things will soon get emanative with the ammunition, perhaps a tempest of German history shall do the trick while we sit and sip our cocktails until the straightened deck cahirs become little more than fire wood for a cruised-out gig. This is the sort of stuff that people try to take credit for anyway, the   rendition of jumping out of          keyboards while the old women and the popular reference library shall end in wives and wolves.

Spin the thread, work the yard, teach all that you can teach whilst on contract and prepare for the inevitable repeats demanded of you by the fickle and wastrel as they crap through the colonic chocolate system that you so carefully arranged. Remember the nationality of the numbers, the sequences and their own personal lavish islands to the other edge of the East Pacific.

12/05/2014 - SOME BROWSE THE PREGNANT

Some browse the pregnant for hours and seventeen years. I got a man like you to steal a photograph from a dirty little sauce bottle at Floyd’s. Just like you to say whatever you want me to with fresh air and party parts. This is my valuable time to weigh up the costs by knickerbockers and let’s say ta to the farthest reaches of Province Red. I was the golden earring on the Arab that drinks tea for the good of his roubles. This is a card that wishes to have love like a trainee-in-waiting, a card that makes naughty movies for adulthood’s exploitation. Follow me to the right round back, set the magazine free for the centrefold by burning it with firecrackers and the hedonism of a computer programmer. His brother is a hacker, his sister a slacker. What did you get for the exit anyway? Was it just a sign or was it something more substantial? She’s lying by climbing drainpipes and grabbing better oceanography for the sake of the Mafia and their undulating love of short fiction and blue Koran suggestibility. This is the shit that gets me off the tracks, saves me at the station for juncture and giving deliveries for ponces. Why do you crimes in the light? This is the sample of the hammer being thrown, being flung across sun tan lotion and people who are out there for the organisational whipping. This is sadism in its bleakest form with one heart to do away with and commit fallen policy to communal memory. I am sheepish, just as sheepish as the porn actor can get when he fancies the porn actress and just wants to make babies for a living. This crap is canonical to my timeline, this is the way that my hero becomes a hired gun for the sick joke of a randy gorilla. Nobody laughs at the telling, nobody pretends to be an ambush outside the festival of erotica. Streamers make me father, balloons make her mother. You know her, she is actually your mother or at least could have been had she not been flown all the way out to Cyprus for a business deal that went fairly awry. We towelled it down and lived again like apostrophes in villas, blanking out every siesta. If your memory serves you well then you might just accrue a polite invitation and a handshake from that Englishman in the Netherlands.

 

I’m crying. He is crying. I am living inside a Spanish flat. He was living inside a Spanish flat tyre. A bald man came and took me away. A bold man comes to take him away from the equation. I’m a high priestess. He became the highest priest test. The black cabs will trample me. The black trams with caber farts. I’m a trouble all the time. He is a curious troublesome twitch in the timeline. She’s with my battle mace, she couldn’t be a friend, she’s walking on weapons from prehistory. Such love.

11/05/2014 - HE DUMPS THE TAP/A FAUCET/COMMAND FUNCTION

He dumps the tap/a faucet/command function. He gets the choppers away from the boys by rearranging the airspace, just to be titanic and sure-footed. There's a storage unit in the locality, it writes game codes by means of apology for all the times it deemed to climb into the woodwork and got its figurative hands real dirty. He doesn't do much more than is required of him anyway, he drinks coffee and reads Beckett for literal value. He wants nothing more than lie about downtown with an unidentified man. The security cameras are trained to pan around him like loving chocolates on melted blueprint pillowcases. It's a fox to hold off, it takes the tail and a Mexican to back up. Did he have any felonies? On spring break? Feed the replies to the problematic services.

Sensors are out for dinner, away to lunch, getting drunk on Italian cheese and European flinging. You are a conduit for candelit dinners and harsh turns, everybody says to him, almost as if werewolves will tell the US Military they're yellow fanged secrets from the mind of a glory bean so that they might tuck them into pristine bags of sleepy Boron material. This is the synopsis, the escaped convict with is bucket full of diamonds and the hole that leaked them all out on the pavement. It takes an audience to pull a file of this magnitude. He's got nothing to lose except for drifting flames from his fluoride flak jacket. He decided to risk it all in real estate but found his honour at a diner filled with organ donors and other finished articles.

On this island a man is expected to go to war with one person bruised by a spire, claiming therapy for the curious. Street signs are just not ready for him but he has all the monarchs in his back pocket, each of them chattering away with careful play-by-play. He could have been floating by on a boat, shooting his wife with charge circuits/downstairs problems/ace of jokers for a fool of lists to come along and grift the hearing aid from right out of his curvaceous head. He screws as he sweats, he plays the news broadcast teams for the chumps that they were with Bible logic and doesn't write off his own entrance and departure by the same 5 o'clock bus. Just get out and go along with the loud crunching gear, that's what he says to himself as he tries to break into the turning of bank produce stands. Baby girls talk to him and disarm his lobbyist contrivances whilst standing in the hallway for the time it takes to shatter a glass ceiling. He has the same situation under press control. Suck fumes until he does, suck fumes for the mayor. Stop counting the days, he commands the sieges that afford him no boudoir privileges, stop away from the tides and our adaptation of that play you really like might actually work without putting a dint in the budgie.

10/05/2014 - SPOT THE MOAN

Spot the moan spiriting the terrain away into a hubcap of prescriptive language. What does it even feel like to do what a did does whilst wearing a didn’t on a daring day? Rape by half, say most chaps with egg on their beautiful knuckles. Nobody can trust a humiliated man who doesn’t even play a courtesy guitar and well they shouldn’t because he raises some bad juju to prevent the rest of us from getting along. The electric brush is whirring out a rocky reference formation through the metaphysical oust of coughs.

 

VESTED INTEREST

Some things just simply get discarded when the game is trapped within the salted confines of a medical store. These soft shoes hurt the back without even dusting the crops. You wait right here, says a chap from the opposite end of a fish tank. The operative ‘You’ is in fact a lonely man with a busted lip that kind of resembles a girl’s when in the incorrect shading. Some cigarettes burn out raggedly like pants losing their multitude. The inoperative ‘I’ just copes with pneumonia and has no trouble besides this solo point.

 

LAY BACK, COUSIN

I call it a motherfucking shame. I call it like it is because the split-tails all succumb to my way of fiddling.

Switch the perished department for the plush miss while her sisters and cousins whimper in misty fog and cold, unconquered ground. All I want to do is get you well and talk great care.

It helps. It wakes the sobbing from the house.

GASP.

Gasp.

Gasp.

Gas.

Gah.

 

EXORCISM OF THE FEVER

Breathe now in cool conscience and the fear of the graveyard shall mould you into a devil in some undisclosed sexual adaptation. The orange grove is just a little beyond and you can find all the stuff in the soiled shed for the right amount of travel payment. So come on, screaming Mimi, come right out with it whilst the audience consists of ex-lovers and laundry detergents. Foes come and go like the voices of little old Blues drummers. No words for the percussive, no words needed. Just touch the face with the silver ring and sooth the shirt right off of your clothes horse. Just like that, in good conscience.

 

SAITH YOU TO BIG-LEGGED RUNNERS

Run around midnight and all kinds of strangeness occur to show that you can’t just chain the madness as you would some bossy gambler. Tell him what you really want from the day trip and the lunch break might just turn up. Whoa, whoa, take it easy now; you’ve been laid up for two days, stale but stable. We’re feeding the beating with Ronnie, with his referees and owing to bested metallurgists. What breaks a sweat, what needs to be righted, what needs to become the underside, who do you think you are? Sam Hill. Gordon Bennett. Stay here awhile, as long as it takes for God to see fit that he’s put you in my path to empty two thirds of the burden.

09/05/2014 - BETTER THAN THE ENGINE ROOM

"'Better than the engine room and no less accidental for sexual reproduction and cinnamon responses for the sake of observation. You should love the way I press your chest along the pocket watch of ameliorated attention-seeking. Send your own self on a congressional romance seat and see where it leads you, my guess is a clean cut descent eight miles high. The television has been laid out on the grass, sprawled among the weeds and daffodils just in case the natural perfume leaks through and causes frictional dimorphic tambourine music along an arched cat’s back. The flames climb high but I’m far too small and you’re far too lovely in a gingham dress. Keep the upthrust going and the windfall might be splendiferous for at least the space and time it takes for an annoying person to lick their paw. Read and the whole of the isle gets reshaped onto a mantelpiece with all kinds of shit kicking down with short story twist endings and spattered can-do attitudes on their way to the promised land of Justcan’tbeforgedagain in the Heathen Ridge quadrant. The players are constantly trying to take the field for a game of gorged horizons whilst feminists take over the big brown boxes for the semblance of poets and vets, all squirmy and manic-obsessive. Try not to wake my toothsome retirement plan. Lose a little battle everyday, Grand Duchess Webb says as she maligns her lunch.

Do you recall what was revealed? I’m not sure I can even call what was revealed, I have my finger on the dial button but it seems like a moonbeam in my grip, the kind that moves around without yielding robotic seizure or tampering the scientific artist straight through the noggin. Lock the banker in his own cesspool and get him settled unto sleep, re-home his accounts into a clean black envelope for the enclosure of silken bridgeware. The salivation and deliverance makes the valiant into grubby detectives of the law, a masquerade for gentle spouses with withering rebuttals such as my car and hose. It’s all a matter of inclusion really.

The pretty farthing and all her boomerangs couldn’t start a fire under my more towering collections of videogames and videogame memorabilia. We’re a weary wolf, you and I, we’re weary hounds together in the flattened face of it all with our flanks raised and our feathers farted out from the tar. Do you recall the totality of the product? Do you even like to see your right hand as a product? Would you care to see it resized? Bar-coded? Assigned to a steady rector? Captured with more or less the same speed of a camera in a wind tunnel? Surely not. Surely you’d rather see that matter involving the them that seems to be cropping up due to gamey legs, surely you’d rather be surly about that for a few minutes. Walk away with the bracelet while you can, it’ll see you safely to the damp grove and the tree that is causing a causeway somewhere there.'"

08/05/2014 - PUT THE GOWN ON THE GLASS

Put the gown on the glass, the hour will take it up later like a sidewinder sickness and swizzle it about in its mouth until the glow effect reaches the tenth level. Rest the rest of the chassis along the bonfire and the deal with God and his god bods will go through it and co-opt all unnecessary numerical materials that might otherwise forecast a prequel. The cats are casting off for the light switch store in case you want them to pick up a hunk of plastic or something equally depressing. I've made sure to tell that that it has to be grimy or you won't even consider nibbling it or tossing a salad. A little help here would suffice, in this regard you might say and know.

That's the sound of elephants crushing the remains of the raffle into graphic censorship and emulations of holographic fumes that still rise up into the atmosphere for noxious togetherness. You'll love the way that I turn up the books for the sake of the ink rations. I see the world's smallest creatures sucking out our common sense like spinach and taking all other relating buzzes by degrees. This is the frantic boredom of cyanide apothecary, well that aside from the acid rain. Revenge really wouldn't be enough for the breeding process anyway, any case, anywhere. The shiny shopping masses of worthless jungle machines so be sure to get it working by boiling the diesel families into toxic sludge. After a while the coughing fit will subside.

            Never hockey. Never region. Never again shall the nocturne see us apart without rational dictation of nix and nays whilst inhabiting the breathing space of an enthused remote control. The scratching and the kicking and the hair follicles are really just for show, a show made especially for the hungered and immeasurably consecrated. Foul breath all round, I think but then thinking isn't quite as lovely as imagining, isn't quite as terribly porous so it probably wouldn't get quite as far in the whole resurrecting dead rock bands business we've been charged with. Sorry but that would be your fault, you lent a hand and that inspired the hippies to write you into their long songs. There's no cheek to hide behind, you're a tongue that doesn't even wag anymore, it just flaps around in a subservient manner, in a subsumed manor house. You just can't seem to keep up with those down payments.

             Here we go again, give a Byron-esque bite of thyme to the fat stranger draped in various smocks and see how his little consumptive habit lights up for all the children to resume their legal patter. The lids are all coming off with impressive voice, they orchestrate a fine vintage for the sake of day old ice cream cake. Now's the time to be Shelley in a diaper, not Erasmus wit alf-finished lingo. Get the feeling in that belly or chicken out, if you prefer. THE WOMAN IS STILL BRINGING THE WOMEN.