28/05/2014 - ONLY THREE, I'M SURE

Some facts to get you started:

 

• Starry scars are not a done thing on knotty nights.
• The placenta is an attempt to burn away excess tissue.
• Reductionism always ends in tempestuous affairs of mind and automobile.

 

Only three, I’m sure, but I know that you’ll get along fine without all the sarcasm and the great minds thinking alike because who really needs that shit staring at you from the front end tip of your remote control? Type as long as you’re listening to royal delays of appointed order and biting down really is beyond the press release, keep your mind within the vlog details.

 

Upon release, the cabana will fill up with cops and robbers enlisted with the specific heist details of counting to three and then making in-game scores with official dice words. The residents are scheduling survival horror for sometime this summer because drip dry ballots lack the polish we set out to create. Preorder now and get a fighting chance at throwing up straight into the brown sack bag. Traditionally the memorial patterning would cool down casinos in big lizard blood, all blended in a blender to make ten million squishes happen worldwide. This proves that great hemp will imagine leagues of ocean and disco metallurgy playing back and forth in driftwood breaks. Say goodbye and close your curtains, draw them into drapes and lose the bamboo altogether now. Fiascos of neckties aren’t usually well received but you’ve managed it somehow with your shitting function and silent movie racial policies. Cowboys, the lot of you, absolute cowboys of government with your rodeos and spatulas filled with baked beans, also running down the sides with redder sauce. Franchises don’t really stop when you ask them to, they go on and on and along with ex-lovers in sailboats to rectify past transgressions in the dot matrix printer while stocks last.

 

Longing for death is dreary so that’s why we free up our thought time with throwing away toadstools and having madcap mathematical battles, quick draw with saddlebags filled with equilateral triangles and isosceles depending on the length of the shooter’s teeth. Keep them in your back pocket whilst dealing with us in the big games, we’ll make all players pay and all payers play. Something wicked every night while the battery shows its leg, all putrid and spiced up with coriander and other cornucopias of bruises. The little Geordie and his best Scottish accent are scrapping this colour-coordinated scheme for fucking cannabis plantations. Somebody should ought to allow his envelope to be stamped and trampled on by a fleet of angry elephants with their factors straight and trunks even straighter. I don’t want to scarcely think about it, I want it to occupy my time in an egregious way. I’m on set most of the day and this is the thirst I get, orchestrating papal routes with a big left index finger and an arm for the right? Don’t be erudite, do be erroneous. Specious species, the lot of ‘em.

27/05/2014 - CLOTHING THE THUMB

Clothing the thumb with tickers and dangerously bad jokes about secret agents. Reading creases with freezes. Reinforcement as per individuality. Sponsorship. Heading our way with experimental kidding. Activation of poor actors at poor Armageddon. Over enthusiasm. Smash to please. Elite sapphires. Saviour vaults like peaceful readiness. Toasted crumpets. Foundling, dwindling, keeping it cool like sister. Who could really say with thundering floor management?

 

Now then. To the matter at hand. I really wouldn’t mind gadgetry to break into all the vaults like they were my own personal trophy room filmed with manic teeth and the other ways in. The kids are younger than getting, finer than jetpacks. We’re all enjoying the ride with our grown breasts and necklace adornments.  All of  your weapons, all of my hearing aids. This is the English dog, the very English dog with the snub-nosed tail and the spyhunter glasses that pretend they’re cogs with back stories and various forms of back ache. Share and be shared, bracelet watchers in the water. These goons are in the police force but only as far as the accidental prototype. It all goes haywire and that keeps me one step out of listened time. My father spent his entire life trying to part the furniture with solutions and golden gone. Everything I ever cared about is given more to more daily, things will be different in a desperate version of guesswork. Every time you come back with evil in your cheeks that wish on bloody bones for Italian cuisine usage. The time vortex is opening and all Glaswegian accents will fall away from step-kids. You’re too             late anyway.

 

Everyone in the world let go of the watch so you can let go of the watch and then watch as you let go when you really should be going and watching yourself go at the exact same time. I don’t need hammer hands or videogame panels, I just need a drip of Melissa Thank, she can’t bring back minors but she can help me create my own with hasty storytelling and narration that borders on sloppy footfall. Wait for it and ask for danger as it rights and and corrects with implicated living meat. I’m going to listen, spend my time listening with gems in my hand and sexy but ultimately useless former child actors. I was so worried to hear about you just being yourself. Stop nothing to get hard time, stop at literally nothing with clocked punts. How do you find that, father? Cooler than being cold in the age of heroism?

 

So show the sewn so-and-so and slow the stowing of soapy so-called snow. We are back on the clock. We are embracing all the time in the world of recruitment of identifying filters for shit for brains pointing and prodding for prodigies only. The shrink ray, the shrink ray turned towards the minute hand and now we are all so-called and somewhatearly. Only monsters alleviate the cup size, only men remark on the beautiful significance of singing voice and Mexican flaming.

26/05/2014 - THE FACT IS YOU NEVER STOP BEING DRACULA

The fact is you never stop being Dracula. That’s the nub of the matter, the dirty little secret as locked within the heart of most pornographic films of that nature, of that subject matter. No amount of sequential throbbing will change the state of your teeth, you’ll never once see the glisten go away or the yellow enamel take over because fictional myth and all its hermetic structure will just not allow it. Something to do with Giant Vampires and the causeways they build by dropping a few splashes of buffered blood. Everybody leans on the training mats as if children weren’t as ebullient as they should be, according to the scripture of Nought to Zero. I doubt that a serf will have read it, any of your serfs that is. The moment’s passed and the sex has been had.

You put spines out of places, out of sweaty back plastic caverns are struck by time in its mouldy bottle of vinegar, formerly fingers. Cut out the sound like a former schoolboy turned spy, just let it die away into folded concertina petals. The bopping goes along with the choreography, the hip flask an extra accessory for the rich and retired. Honey makes me restless and unkind towards weightless environments filled with encephalitis and gangrene. When I was down, she was there from the start nosing that nobody from your past and my conjoined twin’s present. She’s going to break hearts like a limp wrist on a Sunday morning. I do the breaking around these premises. Whatever you do, stay alert and askance before the lady of the house notices the emblem that you wear around your chest and neck and vest. She’ll give you all from her box of boring breaded nuggets. Roderick has no part in this, just Neil and his motley crew of All-hearts.

Excuse me with cold consideration, shape it into a stake and whittle off the tough bits with your unholy toothy pegs. Presenting the end of today isn't quite as stirring as establishing that tomorrow will never come and that yesterday is merely figurative. The chimes of Transylvania are burrowing into your immortal soles, rising up through your shaky anklebones to become one with the entire mechanism that is your greasy, groaning body. So much white corrective fluid in the space between your nipples, the triangle with your chin. It's not particularly artistic, just a plain actor's role as a busybody with his first name and lazy eye. Romance does enough to make you float around like a demon from hell, it sends you on errands with broken bicycles and tidies away all compartmentalised fishing simulators that might show your essence like a glow stick in a meadow.

It's not really about business, being Dracula, it's about knowing where to cut off relations without offending too many people. Beauty doesn't like to be spurned or scorned or slapped in the tickle spots; it just wants to be wrinkled by a quick pat down on the back of some loser's bus.

25/05/2014 - WHAT A DESOLATE PLANET

What a desolate planet this is. I’m malfunctioning in terms of the alien lingo, the local language with all its hooded colloquialisms and she wasn’t even here before me. They said there would be a statue of her somewhere around the dustbowl but all I see are smaller effigies that hinder my walkway as if the electricity wasn’t doing a good enough job already. The twitterings of aristocracy are making mischief around my upper dorsal but none of the robots are willing to help me, not even the service droid with the two-ton forehead. It’s good to think of her as being here.

            I notice that this is the renovated version of the arthropod, that the dank and musty glandular fever has turned out all copper shiny whilst we were asleep in our own doom, wrapped up in the leaves and feathers of a great woman’s meltdown. She couldn’t have melted down here, she was too proud and too tall to break herself in such wimpy grass. I’ve always taken her for a tundra person, a protestor of farmers and being gay uncles without the reminders of pop and fizzle. It’s my moisture binary, my topic of second language conversation. Take these two over to the conversion charge and beep motivation. What about that one? Third-class condition and here he comes. Don’t you forget to stick your neck out and gibber. Thank the maker with bad taste and big contamination.

            She teleports the calling to counterpart scoring with rebellious services and interpretative jamming. I’m merely a malfunction following her voyage via recordings and trustworthy behaviour with residential dune buggies. Let’s play back the restraining bolt and rusty innards that she fought and navigated through, reconsider hurt a while with only some memory erasure. I knew her father, I met him because I welcomed his sister, her aunt into a narked off harvest festival. I’ll be able to hire a few more years in the seasonal hotel, tracking her habits to make up for the golden solipsism.

            Under no circumstances was I under no obligation, I have to hide back behind the vehicles and missionaries that appear to operate them and then disappear to lodge complaints about worrying shutdowns. We’ll get it for excelsior, we’ll call out for leeks and bloody boils. I think there’ll be hell to pay from her lawyers, the ones that still reside on this plain anyway, and I will have to argue a shambles of a case. We’ll have no more of this castration business, none of the blather to buckle up she and I. We’re two separate entities and our out and out combat will echo down the ages with a rapture of combustion engines ploughing through comestibles like dash fire or white-haired flambé. Come here, my little friend, my love, my busy lady all in one place. Travel heavy and I shall catch up with you before the hermits and we won’t have to deal with all that property business. I can’t even remember your name anymore.

24/05/2014 - ASIDE FROM THE HUGS

Aside from hugs, the lectern doesn't like physical touching so please don't fizzle or pop. If you feel that shit coming down on, you do it at the plinth. I want a divorce. The enablers are all decorative vegetables in the church, slung across the pews and raining down bath materials as if they were hazardous to someone without his will and testament in order, revved up and pushing 50 down a one-way street. It tastes nice, this stock; it sticks in the mouth and reverently refers to my verbose gums. Meanwhile the rest of me glistens and glints away.

            What is everybody? Where does it constitute? How does it simmer? In an egg cup? With soldiers? One night. One night with egg-fried rice. It's not an unusual question on a quest like this, at your request I might add. It's good to lack something, still at the temperature it needs to be at. Spill the stains and you don't know what from what or when from Wendigo. It's a tragedy, it's a shame. The rain blows and the sun whistles down and nothing is certain aside from petal blossom on the sphinx's good eye. I'm not quite ready to hallo angels, I don't have the correct command function let alone the adaptable circuitry. I'm maleficent, strung up by the wings of destiny. Harp plays softly, precious tunes to a familiar interlude. We're not far off now, are we? Six minutes. Right. You dry and I'll wash the smaller parts into dust.

            There once was a port where you could picture yourself with loved ones past but they closed it off due to refurbishment which was basically coded language for rainy day destitution. Schoolboys still arrive from overseas to the sound of disappointed wailings in the knoll. It stops and starts with its grassiness, keyed into the configuration of mankind's unnatural light sequence. Aardvarks and such like live in the pines now, their tongues reaching out towards hoarded backs, all turned and splashed with red paint. Our correspondents told us it was red paint but dye is still a distinct possibility.

            Half an hour later you'll be on all fours and wondering why your modesty is showing, why it's been shown to all candidates in last week's grand examination. They got it together in case you were to bare all at some point outside the privacy of your foundation but, don't worry, I cut it off just before the knees. You go that far south and nobody trusts you anymore, nobody will take their clientele or cardsharps to your office for the foreseeable future. They've quantified the tone of your skin, the exact tone and the results will be posted online the next time you take a shower. There won't be any cameras in there, any streaming aside from the water cascading down your long, prominent nose and the freckles making off with your cheeks.

            I make a mean argument, slay those germy jerks all the way round their briefing systems. We're causing all kinds of hassle, backhand.

23/05/2014 - THE LAUGHTER COMES AT ME

            The laughter comes at me down a long corridor that smells of citrus and, as it does, I realise for the first time just how lucky I am not to be a cartoon dog anymore. The clapping is rapture and the month is late October but only between my ears because the pressure is just so and to have it exerted anywhere else on my person would only serve to irritate the hell balls out of me. Rewind the clocks from the parties, the ones you received as a parting gift from that colleague in the Shrove jumper, and you'll hear the ticking go on forever in a way that isn't quite ticking but still remains within that comfortable definition.

            These hands are my children, your fingers are my cherubs and the joining of our palms is like a winter greeting during a summertime storm. You look at that and see the clatter of switches being pulled and tugboats being set off into patches of ice and hard-up cashier jobs that supermarkets recruit to feed their abasement. Then again the sweets might lift your spirits by lowering your traditions into a lovely well filled with Irish cream and dissenter screams that don't intend to chime or rhyme as one while the rest of us look into the psychology of the matter. There is nothing to see here except the great actor stepping down from the forgettable roles that are offered to him in his greying years. I am that actor and everybody wants to give me a handjob whilst pressing the handle against the small of my back. I do the dance and everything just to please them in their bloodbath.

            Today I discovered just how immune the exits are around this place, how timely your arrival turned out to be to the pockets of dissenters. It's almost like robbery if it weren't for all the daylight and cherry beams from the stained glass. I only came to see why there are still so many people and you found me among the men and the children of men and the rest that are monkeys and apes and living things with interesting hair distribution. The keys are dropped in the bowl and my crimp is acting up, fucking around with my charisma. Or is my charisma doing all the fucking around? It's a toadstool really, an angry little thing that pops air freshener smells when I'm not looking into flicker sloths on the Main Channel.

            Neil and Jean and Erasmus and myself all went out to try out for the alien taskforce but we didn't get there in the end, we stopped by a casino in some dustbowl city for the good of the kiddies that would inevitably die on our sleepy-eye watch. The glam rock music was a faint whisper among the hushed voices of hotel concierges and men flinging diamonds at traveller's cheques because they are magicians and that kind of touch and twirl is close-up magic. These men just live to call me 'dummy'.

22/05/2014 - SAY IT AT THE BONFIRE

            Say it at the bonfire, speak in hot potatoes while the soft-handed blister and tussle with each other over the lotion and animal husbandry duties. I don't know much about silhouettes but if you go for that woman's then you're as good as dead, son, the party don't stop just for her novocaine. Dudes eat a load of religious stamps  in the wharf and blanket out the catalogue containing no-man's glamour spray. Where the fuck does one even level up in this olde time setting? That loose invention hasn't got any instructions on the side or even in the tiny manual that dangles on a rope at the side. Put it wherever you hope to be British and it's supposed to light up like a nightclub after an hour of slicing and dicing and giving up ink in Rotterdam. If you do die, if you should, then let it be dabbling in dead spots filled with CVs and pirates who would take these dossiers of vital information for nefarious ends. That tall one likes to trick people with his soggy shirt and embarrassing lay. Rather than running around, find all the relevant items and cram them straight into your sports-loving mouth with half of your stair-like teeth protected by a guard. You're a clamp, a flask and a few loose evening tiles landing in a fish bowl to the marching bat of Holy Shit troops.

            Since when did this turn out turn to shit and turn, turn, turn again? Was it the movement of an inspector of screen options and workaday ennui? Try to kill somebody, just load-up the ambush and slaughter a fat neck because the guys are really kind of easy and not worth losing your lunch over, even if that sort of stuff turns them on. Turns, turns, turns like a likelihood. Get up at the attack of the curve, raise the dentures and let the monster see in the dark for his Happy Family game. Something created will still hurt with hits and once every thousand years. The rest come in bites at the good play, thus evening the odds. Stay tuned amongst yourself, dodging bullets and general rainfall in the muddy terrain. Copy the boxes, tick them as they come with graining pens and ferryman signatures. The real reason I stress this is because I'm going home to announce a wild and illustrious plan for queer culture. Hint: it'll involve unprecedented access to virtual reality.

            Hilarity hedges its bets on clarity of focus and the voyeurism that many appeal after for the sake of making brains and ears alike bleed varicose fluid for a yard and then a kilometre until all we're left with are the deserted and complicated by scarves and ovular darts tournaments that just keep going around and underneath and around and loop-de-loop and other big deals for the Big Deal corporation that sit in their lonely towers in the hopes that someone new and fresh and only peripheral will bring books and speak in garden lingo.