06/05/2013 - OUT OF SLIGHTLY ORDINANCE

Out of slightly ordinance, out of ligament pie, out of endurance in all type cases. Out goes the mission of life to preserve the quantum feasibility with nothing more than a sticky back toothbrush and the concertina hand grenade. Lob it forth and present thyself to the goalie and his snuffling hat. There is a roughhouse in his bed, there is a rugged reptile making off with his quilt and all the Egyptian cotton is being eaten. It’s not just an ordinary way out, it’s the simplest. It’s the shades pulling off the face of a cold gentleman with nerdy cheekbones, it’s the sound of a psychology textbook slipping into an ethereal dimension. Iota and ion are married in perfect quasi-scorpion love.  The minister didn’t catch the tie in the end so he couldn’t decide what remained on the ship, it wasn’t his place anymore. Out of the smiling man crossing the ocean floor, out of the silken patter he leaves behind him, out of the calling to morning from the deft eagle of transport. This is gross clucking from destructive whoremongers.

There isn’t a misunderstanding between them, not enough to roll around in the tin can of spastic delight. The darkening hovel of murderous reputability is providing the provided with provisions that will go onto provide, provided that providence shoots the doldrums away. Out of the fridge magnet, out of the decoration, out of the mutual habit to grind teeth to the brittle grunge. The bells are making clitoris membranes fall about in awe, the bells are of course an allegory for anal sex and violent conversation over defenceless pillows. The weepers make the green light stick around without the aid of a marksman’s hometown referee. Watermarks are coming down to be brusque and eloquent to spite the noses of the poet kings. The show is not for the faint-legged or the quibble-challenged. Montgomery Swashbuckling is in fact a valiant company that sells peace of mind and ultra-cool swishy things that go and cut through pharmaceutical curtains. Presence should be known anyway.

The Tao of Erasmus is all self-involved and self-intruding. You can take on the lotus position and try to make use of the yardstick logic but no gnomes are actually calling to him from across the Quiet Vehemence. There are clasps to be waded through, buckles to gripe with. Go downtown and cheers will come out of the woodwork and leave you well and truly tribal. Excommunication is as dry as coffee-spent humour and twice as sharp in the folding cloth of dusk. Wordy exposition can’t possibly save us from trying and crying and whirling underneath the boarder’s patrol. Like Mrs. Thank, it’s a protruding nature to be hazarded with, a gliding walkway that pounds its own paving stone open and apart. Mentally, we always moan to plum obsessions and fair enough fayre to cramp the stylised quick pomegranates. The prison is brave and strange all at once in the bright green. Out of the nature, out of the loveliness, out of the days later.

05/05/2013 - RELENTLESS WEEDS

Relentless weeds are sprouting all over my devilled chair and it’s supposed to be cleaning day. It really isn’t fine to be in an unmade bed, it’s an allowance that goes without a shower and sweep. The cables are running into abandoned taxes and the grease is hilarious when you recommend the warp of death. The grins are brief and few and far between and up and down and pudgy in the sadly referred quantum tunnel. I’m scared to go outside the borders of my own memory, not neither the long term nor the short term, the freaky term. The memories come at me with super speed and incoherent principality. I expected to be accepted by the shotgun of directorial deadlines but they keep coming at me regardless of the wind change, the shallow water interference or the box logic. We did so many shoots it was illegal.

Don’t hold him that way; he doesn’t like pictures of cardboard in the western plenty. The wire curtains are turning into sieves with every curricular question run down by butt footage. I feel like marching ahead but the veterinarian keeps batting me off like some big day on the belly. We were friends with the cat moms and we cherished each moment of R.E.M. sleep and button-mashing. The waking shaking baking rafting competition to the moon provides a ailing solution! Overreaction is what we know on the grimy streets of Sheet October. The noises carry on like the winos bellowing them, they glaze over happenstance cobblestones and stow away with the dope. Everybody went to see the iron film in the bubbly concoctions of their foreboding and mulch brooding. Fantasy. Blasting.

The horn is blowing and, a hundred pages later, we’ll no doubt forget the timeline and offend the Manga Sensitivity. Brain farts are telling us to never mind and never do well and wear our door knockers like primary merchandise. Direction is what leads to beaten mugs and clangs against the depth perception of our home grown moguls. We’ll see, we’ll wish the host a day up against the wall with the laundered serendipity. How the shame lilts with sour dough balls and protrudes them like so much salamander defections. It’s truly a nonentity to be a man who inserts ‘how’ into both dinnertime and breakfast time conversation. It makes one tedious in the irises of others.

Reams are reams are reams are street people of the honking refreshment that is the daily newspaper piracy, making boats with the power of the mind alone. Perhaps some hammer tongs would assist distribution but then that’s only a friendly suggestion so please don’t strike me out with bald caps. I couldn’t survive the surplus, I just couldn’t go between the lines of passing cars. The jeeps are my planted feet and that’s why the persona won’t let me get anywhere in life. It really isn’t my fault, you see, it’s the lady who does all the dancing without strings. She’s keeping me dead.

04/05/2013 - HEAR THE CLATTER

Hear the clatter, that’s the sound of becoming God’s protégé. Not a position to be sniffed at, provided you can clarify that the man with the big thumbs really is God and not just some throbbing melancholic. The mistake is easily made and one not soon forgiven, some former protégé-attempters ended up committing seppuku in the orange groves. The reason? Is that question ever honestly answered by anyone but the gnat and its top hat brigade? They’re generally slippery buggers especially when trapped within the bushels of moronic decision-making. The machines may whirr but their logic can be broken through the slightest whisper of carelessness. Their attempt is by far the finest utopia, inasmuch as the cast are scorpions with rosary beads. The guitars don’t solo for the deceptive decrepit creatures, they make their screams and wails for the dead inside.

Thoughts that rely on chicks-for-free ideologies can cause the salami of togetherness to fail rapidly. The amorous colour television comes crassly in the night so don’t expect a tribunal to get away with the conceptualisation. The phantoms are merely borrowing the burrowing technology in order to become more proficient liars in their lairs. That’s the way you do it, not working for the dumb blister persons. Those baggage handlers keep us from the gate keepers and make the underside of our jockstraps yawn for deliveries. The truth behind apologies is that we all must come closer and not exceed our recommended price offering. Monsieurs are lurching all over the other places, making churlish comments about angry policemen with curling top hats. You may rest assured that the child will be fed according to the machinist’s specification. The timetable has, of course, been up for twenty seven years. But the mayor has shown recent signs of conspiring for change, of teaching the tiger new ways to complete its bad-natured resurrection. This can only end in big tears of fabric.

You make me think of a man from years ago, a man who disappears and always ignores the ocean with new-fangled internet memes and a penchant for classical feminism. Somewhere there isn’t a high-pitched quaver to travel across voluptuous voids and it makes the populace sad and murky. The change is more in the information than the numbers, the factoids becoming a feature of a condemned octopus quartet. It’s a graspable possum when phasing in and out of the nether plane, it clamps shut at the very prospect of that sacred clatter and clash we mentioned before. It wasn’t brief nor was it a cushioned transcription. The writer, as always, knows how to trash a party with his ethics and acknowledgement of wee hours. He or she won’t leave until you bring out the liquor to the poor and porous. This is commonly referred to as the art community with dashes of thespian thirst. Staying too long keeps the beast from opening his waste paper basket all over the dank and pernicious. Rectal thermometers all round or face the wrath of quills!

03/05/2013 - I THINK I'VE SEEN IT SPELLED OUT SOMEWHERE

                I think I've seen it spelled out somewhere. The DNA swab and serial number and all other forms of ecstatic malady. In many ways, I'm particularly precocious whenever I'm in long distance fat fryer equipment. It has to stay that way or we'll fling cocktails into thankful dawns. There is a physical match and a laughable snort to boot. Access to bored skylights gives the level mind foresight even from behind the barricades of broken pistols. These criminal attorneys have little to no concern over veiled threats and sitcom privacy. The passenger does nothing but disappoint the Navy Marine with his adages and driving licence stories. Making sense of lacerations is not actually part of the job description, it's inconsistent and driving us ever downward. The co-pilot wears his badge lightly and makes a low ascent into doorbell quaintness. Head wounds, the lot of them.

            Norse boyfriends want us both dead in some shape or form. I've been there a few times, all hot and heavy with sticking out ears. It must suck to be pissed off all the time by doing something you know you'll later come to regret. It's quicker to cheat in the heat of anger. One time I lost all my chin fuzz in a crash but now I'm on my way back over the moon's buck teeth again. Overalls make love an impossibility over long, despicable gaps. In the meantime we'll verify the baby's father and then set fire to the appropriate Vegas leads. That's a given junction to our morose ancestry. The mother's forgot during their childbirth, somewhere between epidurals no doubt.

            I'm not the sort who talks and demands quiet subsequently, I will let you know all about the jugs and the oil reserves before the little finger descends and repeats disaster all over the hectic vomitorium. Don't do it here sonny or you'll regress into runway pesticide and no mother will have you for her cribbage tournament. Erasmus is aghast at the possibilities of even the slimiest modification, it frustrates him beyond concentration to recognise all the information he must process all at once when the deadline looms and none of the other fuckers will stop and think 'Hang on a sec, maybe we're laying it on a little too thick perhaps.' Instead they expect everyone to be at the same superhuman reading speed, expect that people can doing anything anytime without so much as a hat's clatter on a kitchen countertop. It's hard, it really is hard to keep up with lots of shit that insists on skateboards as their main mode of transport. Downhill it is truly an epitome of manic, vastly unforgiving compared to the forces of gravity. Motherfuckers will push you because they think you'll benefit but you won't. You ultimately will never be able to find the next rung. Just ask your local GP.

            I really do hate to leave this burning ball of exaggeration, it makes me punch in ways I'd never get to away from the hairy trickery of attainment.

02/05/2013 - ELLIPTICAL MISOGYNY

                Elliptical misogyny/respectable Deuteronomy, the dentist told from behind his pedestal of peddled stools. The sample case was mouthing opera to the huddled masses in a last ditch attempt to educate them through the vectors of culture. No amount of warbling could commend the crowd to do something worthwhile with their howling madness, no amount of sugar cubes could satiate their gaping cup holders. The book readers were prosecuted with the back end of a screwdriver and thrown off an MDF plank with the brute force of wristwatch technology. The only hero among the bunch shouted out, Don't be a noun/be a sextet of acronyms but the people flagellated him for his XL crimes. Deviants are tolerated in this society but only until they commit the heinous act of truth massaging. When the tips are undercut then the lies must be credible and must fit into a comely little black dress before the fag storm arises. The fags of course are cigarettes with flamboyant tendencies so please don't dare accuse me of flagrantly disregarding the community of winged frivolity. Their rubber-tipped pleasures bring the bells home for the Devonshire clotted cream communes. It really is marvellous to see how laborious they are with excitable lingos.

            What isn't adorable is the lack of professionalism expressed by the big-breasted quarter. They hog shower-time and make for poor door switches and light handles. The knobs are in bloom whenever the sunlight shines through this God forsaken quarter, the luminosity is non-refundable. I asked a spokesman on the matter and he told me, don't lay markers on circus barkers/spend days within months and make sure you utilise the minister's daughter before she reaches her sell-by date. I followed this sage advice and nothing much has done me wrong, the tails are wriggling and the scissor-tipped limbs are marching in polite unison. It's treason to not have an answer for everything when you're in this witty army. The helmets don't just pay for themselves, you know. Fathers have wallets but wallets don't grow fathers in return. We could stand here all day trading adages but novices are trying to slip around your fat anus. You put a little too much cushion in to plump out the basics. I don't blame you, I blame the cloak room and all its disaffected mirrors. They live to disassociate, disrepute and many other words starting like dis. The curtains dub over the really naughty language for the good of the primates who wouldn't understand unless you threw bananas into reactor cannons.

            The explosions of course are what set the essential people off. It makes them proud of their promiscuity, it teaches them that it's alright to not be bound by the laws of lols and that glory goes around with prissy underwear. These people I blame mostly because my yachting business won't take off without their promotion and hair-waving. There is something embedded within each follicle to make the censors go bright green with okay lights. There are ten minutes between them and the next part of somebody's fledgling game show. Why does that presenter always look like he's been climbing up a lithium mountain of his own creation? He is not deserving of mythological status, not with his body shape. Damn his glazed over humour. Wake the fuck up.

            The services come by on an adventurous tenure, to make all the red bricks salivate with intellectual insipidity. It's somehow amusing to watch the distinguished professors squabble over chicken legs and drumsticks launched into orbit around small satellite I set up in a neighbour's backyard. He, of course, was American and didn't know I was a Russian getaway driver from all the bank-robbing films he'd never seen. It's fun to torture the people who actually get up off their arses and make a decent change in the world, a decent hefty dint. It elevates one, it lifts the mortgages from red to black though how that doesn't make things worse I'll never understand nor appreciate. So long as there are flyers to be lost in buses passing by then life shall retain its little idiosyncrasies. I blame it's parentage.

            Meanwhile the villagers are husking my corn and powdering the wigs of grave misfortune. The rosary surly servitude isn't dressed in rags, not completely so don't you dare risk stereotyping or the Western gavels will all come crashing down at once. They'll make a thunderclap to rattle the cold snap and make it wet it's tiny whities in the British suppository depo. How the ringtone gloats into sand dunes whilst the rest of us pheasants do the yuletide fling. As the rose-monger once said on his death bed, 'Tis a sarcastic cheese grater/greatness cannot be flanked by such heady taglines. Home makes itself ask the questions of Erasmus' riddle-spewing machinery. We like to call it is tertiary brain, the first two being within each fabulous shoulder pad. Fashion makes fraudulent philosophers of us all! Yahoo! Ya boo sucks, brewery biatch! The time is made of rafts that never receded into the bosom of stormy seasons. We lose ourselves in the body of acute division.

            Dewey decimal troublesome catches make a pain of the very wholesome nature of our distant existential eyes. I was in vain of vainglorious love for the sake of the groomsmen who were too nifty to spare their good drinking hours. I regret nothing of bothersome singulars and characterised method acting, it only leads us to a steadier drum beat that is not just merely hampered by synthesiser music from somewhere beyond the light years of our cognitive capabilities. The dais is a dreary deliverance from workaday foot pounds, like someday we'll all become artisan physicians without the necessity of latitude. Longitude, however, is essential: it provides the perfect contrarian for our political ideology, it keeps the other hand lurking behind our hearty clockwork. The days are perhaps too difficult to manufacture but at least the foe is suitably makeshift. The dog always tilts its head to see things sideways.

30/04/2013 - NEARLY WENT MEALY-MOUTHED THEN

            Nearly went mealy-mouthed then. Sorry about that. Mysteries always do that to me, the ones of the tabernacle variety at least. I suppose it's just my jangly nerves and the distinct lack of tambourine therapy. Did you know that it takes 60% of the population to even form a perfectly asymmetrical tambourine from wheat alone? They say it involves a lot of compression and electrolysis and everybody, absolutely everybody, needs to be wearing a mother's arm skin across one eye. It's a blinding experience and yet it doesn't blunt the speciality of the mixture. The only thing volatile is the misdirection some hairnet jobbies apply to keep things away from the red brick universities. All I can say is such is life and murky blackness. The ingredients are listed as follows: semolina, party hats, sexy tomatoes, whatever, dried apricots, transcendental martyrdom and a little scratch of cumulus cloud. Any other cloud and you'll have a field day in the lab. Our production leader, Erasmus Tabernacle, is wearing his hard hat now so there's nothing to do but sheet his latest instructions in watertight icicles. The icicles contain cumin extract just to give added flavour, or so the census says. It wouldn't so much as proclaim around Erasmus though, he has a friend in business partner Mr. Thank. He even managed to bring that sonuvabitch Neil onboard, although what he's bringing to the table hasn't exactly been made known yet. That's the problem with snot rag nepotism: some pegs don't fit the roles.

            As part of today's business, I will be plugging in bulbs of electricity. The insides rattle because of all the stapes concentrated inside, it should make a slow rushing sound like a wave or somebody catching their baby from a fallen window. It's not sadism provided you have the relevant package and don't question the fine print beyond the forty-fourth line, the one coloured pink. It takes all sorts of lifestyles to make Erasmus Tabernacle happy, he will not deal with sex for favours unless there is a cultural diversity keeping things interesting. All of his teddy bears have unsightly claws and yet still don't condescend. It's a tough biz as they always say although I'm inclined to disagree with the two-part return of Trustee Steve. That trustee gets around and it scares some of us on the conveyor belt line, he's always swatting wasps and focusing their stings on learning difficulties. There's nothing special about where he intends to go and what he hopes to do with the company resources. Goodness knows why his hardhat's up on the highest shelf of the trustee cupboard. Everybody wanted a cabinet but Erasmus thought it would be selling out to the American Market if we didn't add a cup to every container we use. Nobody talks about how metaphysical shit can get whenever Erasmus wants to fiddle with policies, mostly because we all really couldn't care. Our minds are befitting of urban gardeners: we plough in spite of the white women.

29/04/2013 - ONLY BROWN GLUE

                Only brown glue straight from the clown's perfect mask can detonate the jeep from behind. It sweetens the deal with two pulverised Australians and shucks of draconian unemployment for our bitter better tastes. I want to tap into the hunch of iron books, smear the big gooey ears over slit throat answers. Swirly are like seduction to men on the bus, they make the balcony look practically naked in the process. Bad cops aim for the gonads, brute cops aim for the knee caps. No flesh goes untended and that's a promise from buzz cut blood.

                We are all of us to be played for fools in this case of skulduggery and will work it over for japes and circumstantial evidence. It shutters the blind with bruises and various discolouration so as to make their fruit both pungent and smattering. Do you have some place for them to stay or should we just peel off the files from suckled peasants. Tumultuous Father Decade lives by a wristwatch these days. As he says nowadays, 'hands and faces are for the loose moose-minded'. When the well-wisher crow you know that it is time to arm yourself and, if not, take this as a delicately put  warning for you and your little imbecile friends.

                Mystics make eyes for judo stiffs and distribute them through all the inappropriate channels such as lounging majors and foolish doctored hazy beams. The double barrels are locking into place, leaving barren holes in the last week before our work truly begins. This work requires much standing around the shop and feeling sorry for the self as the dust of armchairs gone by make themselves known up the nasal passages. This is for the violation and the red spatter over my limey arsehole. I catch the devolution as swiftly as I do the shattered starry wrists. It's time to fracture the inward-looking politics with the guy who gets away with everything he doesn't do. Previously he's managed a knife in the niece and an exploitative bedding venture that bordered on illegal conduct. Arrest the bastard before he promotes himself to a higher calling, to a learned state. He deserves an arrow to the fatty tissue and all the squelching red light. Throw everything else away.

                The objective: send  salve to betrayal network station suppositories to resist new motive, assumptions of Irish motels. That's it for the press and their ball games unfortunately. Make them smirk through fingered thugs and become the recipient yourself, bound by a yellow dress and the lady that wears it so fine. Finesse makes spittle gush out through the Morris dancers  and other factions of The Great and Fervent Push. Congratulations for the word are just about in order but they're still lingering at the bottom of the general grimier three-handed pocket. Coats, coats and no more selfish attribution. Ridges return to the gluey statement, paying heed to the blacked out, white drunk eyeballs of round-featured nature. Myohmymysawdusthandjobgrenadeking how he wasn'tquiteassufficientasthetypoerrorsmadehimoutobe, how could they be so crudeandlurkinginanambitiousdancehallofcommissionergloom.