05/09/2013 - I'LL NEVER RETURN TO THE BUNCH

            I'll never return to the bunch, The Scored Wallet said, I have thirty thousand pleasantries to dispense among the witch doctors of the world and not just the ones with the creative wooden masks. I have a duty to be duly noted in every theology of the world or science fiction if that's not possible. It's time to be shown appreciation from the holy hurly zeitgeists that insist on washing any given pair of funky feet. So kindly get off my back. So just plain old get the fuck out of my just and jolted sight. You sicken my day.

            But it's time to be exclusive, The Masochistic Author muttered, Who are you kidding? I'm the executive in this biz and you are merely taming for time, you are like the remnants of a little snack on a limpet mine's uvula. I cast you like an aspersion, make you straight with the keys, bind you with replacement sexuality. I'll sic the bloody Bengal Tiger on you, that tall bastard in the hanky suspenders and the playing card bowtie. He'll make you into a series of increasingly unlikely chronicles from the perspective a deodorant salesman that's having the worth month of his easiest year. He'll decimate you. He'll mark you for other men, make you shudder homewards in your ill-gotten shame. And I shan't be there to bless your journey, I shall be somewhere parting grains of sand with nothing more than tiddlywinks and the awesome thrust and pinch of my mind!

            Oh dear, The Scored Wallet said, The fizzy wordsmith has shot off his frontal lobes again. And out of jealousy too! Who would have seen the day? Who would have paid attention in class to determine its wing span and the faintest odour on its breath? I suppose you have some power over me but I shall simply have to muster up the courage to lock you in the aforementioned tower and place you in some sort of placid condition from now until the end of the era. Of course I will see about sending up a shotgun to you so that you can pick off the rotting bookshelves but it certainly won't be a musket. I know exactly what you can do with muskets and I'm not paying for another van load of wall paper. It comes right out of my mouth, don't you know?

            You can't do owt, The Masochistic Author grumbled, I made you to fit comfortably in the aerial pocket that has been promised by Erasmus from the Future whilst also incorporating some features so that Mr Thank can find use for you. You are a receptacle and nothing better, I slip cards and paper in your mouth and you take it well enough, without even the tiniest wrinkle in your leather. The slices that run up and down your spine won't last when I patch them up, they seem to be the source of your bravado. I have just the right materials for it.

04/09/2013 - WAIT TILL HE'S CAUGHT HER UP AGAIN

Wait till he’s caught her up again and get the popcorn out while we still have a chance to see him make an absolute definitive tit of himself. She’ll shake him up and spew his guts like so much fire hydrant showstoppers, she’s notorious is that one. He’s a lover and she personally can’t stand that kind. He won’t last long enough to see the punk movement catapult itself into a new cornucopia of edible face paint. It will have a calming effect and it’s such a shame that he’ll be made to miss it. I’ll be sure to have his mother though. Round, that is.

She has such a dirty mind, a hive mind that belongs to the rest of her commune as much as her. They don’t pretend to be a kibbutz, that’s no longer the issue, they instead spend their time writing iambic feet into the plastic bag dietary office tampon. They’ll drown with Tylenol; they’d sooner see us gagging on medical prescription than floating happily this side of sensible. They ain’t half a vindictive lot. She must be the worst of them, the way she goes around gassing and gawping with the plaintive subway ticket totters. They had some potential left over; it’s such a shame, such a black mark against her mucky orange name.

She was a puddle of old men, exactly the same kind of bloke he was before she made him a beautiful black movement from between her foreshadowed legs. We might be overreacting but the jubilee will guide her through the action, her morals namely. We wish the ending was an adjective rather than an adverb but you get what you’re given in this autocue of a life. She has the guts after all and she can do whatever the hell she likes with the blistering remains of a slipshod muffin like him. It’s purely transformative. We’d sort it out if we could but the capitalists want to meet us this afternoon and we really can’t afford to disappoint the fiasco any further. It might stretch itself, give itself to lesbian porn as an oft-overlooked tool of veiled masochism. It’s safe to say we’ll drown whoever comes close to ensuring that this happens.

If you look right now you’ll see her tying up her shoelace and diving downward to catch the five o’clock train to dizzying heights. The empire has no time for her, you see, it wants to make a griffin out of her and charge her with moderate discrepancies. He might as well have never been the chance encounter he was, he could be a blank faced erection for all the empire cares. She is doing all she can to live up to her reputation but I fear her long hair and conniving wrack are convincing no-one anymore. Another year and she’ll be another age, a decade on from the last time she had a middling run-in. It was the modelling agency, they have a quirk ready and waiting on standby. Sorry, quark.

03/09/2013 - LIKE MOST MEN THROUGHOUT HISTORY

Like most men throughout history I am a nation unto myself. I am an island beset upon by teeming llama produce, by sawn-off reductionism and even by the by-line of angel feathers. I have learned to drive the truck of my cognitive displacement through this by sounding an alarm to set off the fantasies that lurch around inside my marbles; if anyone can supersede their graphics they can. It's just as well too, the route to AREA 26 is riddled with rattling post boxes that walk the streets with a haunting aspect to them. I refuse to be led astray by them, I am unafraid of their fiscal analogies. It is simply a case of saying sorry that resurrects the promising demons, the horned one requires a little more than I can give at this time. Believe me, demons are easier to handle than empty post boxes, more benevolent in the face of chagrins. Chagrins never stop down where I come from, they burn smiles for miles and miles. So says the scripture that nobody bothered to check for and read but me. It's like I'm the only one listening to the Forty Fathers. They spent hours in their den cobbling together and scribbling down instructions on how to exist without their relevant input and this is the way we treat them. Well, not we, just you scum. I claim to be better than all of you and quite rightly too, I'll say. I have the ingredients that will spell out your wakening but I shan't give them to you unless the Gods dictate it to be so. More particularly, I am waiting for a big, booming SO MOTE IT BE.

 

...

 

 

Some words calm my nerves more than others, especially when issued from a fat woman's lips. She isn't so much obese as she is frumpy, she is a walking, chewing armchair and I'm alright with that. What the doctor orders but never orders is a woman set up like the world's largest tree stump. Her hug is just as stiff and barky but whatever she chooses to say will lower the blood temperature like a click on a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich's lips.  She says 'MEIN' and I'll be happy. She'll say 'GAMEY' and I am happy. She could sing the entire chorus of WHAT A DANGEROUS CAST INTERVIEW AM I and I would be the happiest chap in all of South London. Some women are like that: you don't want to bonk them but they know where the kind language needs to be applied. I have come up with a term for it, a word: maternal. Sounds good right? I checked the dictionary and there were a few close approximations but I think I've cornered the market on that one. Yes, maternal fat ladies can heal the veins and arteries so they don't pop and twerk as much. I have so much stress in my life what with the heavy responsibility to the Forty Fathers and being my own continent.

02/09/2013 - VISUALLY PERCEPTIBLE

Visually perceptible to see the watching. Long stretches. Long slimy stretches of blowing cheek cracks. Lost turbo, so swapping to retro for a few. Salmon skin drug reference on a platter of humane rice. Inhumane graphic animations dawdle about the Big England Dream Invocation. Something in the front of the bedroom that slaps integral parts onto yurts filled with creamy fisherman. Asking hard-ons to become mites for a few seconds while this area passes into night. Accepting the whole world. Designing a featurette to spectacular specification. Ghastly time-keeping. Cold front pockets that chant their own sepulchre. Making boom-boom in the cleverly adapted lounge space. So the national tea elocution goes as it goes. Such a direct direction of the hero with a bomb between civilian butt cheeks. Love goes off for a quiet fag and a philosophise. Love makes boom-boom out of boohoo. Ostrich au pair. Swastika patent. Hands flying up to say the bedroom talk. Knees cruising past to blaze a row or two. A row for two along a pleasant magazine cartridge. Seeing eye dog with pricked up ears. Asinine turns silly into stupid into plain unintelligent. Erasure. Flasks of potions, most of them violet. Erasure. Clandestine applications for the self-determination society of Political Militia America from the Underwhelmed Basement. At least the blowjobs keep on coming. Chaps make the blacklists. As the day glows go home for post and packaging. Adequacy trumps erasure. Especially the children, don't pass them up for television whilst legs are still applicable. A space on the form is just down here. Can't be far now from home, can't be more than a fence over. It runs all the runny around and amid. Lecterns make for a bit of a climb, a tad of a clamber but just a tad.  Recognising the difference of staff from pointy stick. Roughly on erasure. Mossy twelve. Thunder gone and took it back from under the done rotten things. It'll belch. It'll belong quite wisely. Tell a friend to make a blog from scratch and sniff artwork, as premiered by salivating hounds. Straw eyesight. Glandular fever atop a forty foot wall with an eyestalk sticking out from the end of the bushy tail. As was the promise in the promised land, as was the sacred violation of munching. Brands may change but red hair doesn't. The supermarkets have it in robin's egg blue or bill envelope brown. The webpage. The erasure of said webpage. The line of unemployment winding around crisscross corridors. No vacant grins, just galvanised trades and dead booklets. The Lazarus sharpener blinks and binds and shoots a load into the pyjama party of the garden's solid soluble soul. Well wishers come to telephone the crown jewels ahead of tambourine time. The levels of malware. The scatological scanning of verse. Isn't quite brash enough. Isn't nearly enough ballsy for most operant networks. So sordid. So kickable. A white sky lays down to kneel down to vent and ventilate. The senses converge, comply, emerge. Simon doesn't say.

01/09/2013 - THE PEOPLE LOVE ANACHRONISMS

The People love anachronisms: I’ll say that right now, right up front. There is a type of experience that can only be referenced by particular members of a philharmonic orchestra and it is that type of experience we are feeling right now. So gird your loins and prepare the rocket boots: the People are ready to march with their batons safely thrust in the air!

Our plan of attack is fivefold:

 

1.       Surrender the lesbians. The lesbians are what the people want, the slutty ones especially. The kind of strong independent women who still carry small purses and wield long, drawn-out kisses whenever faced with traitorous truck driver dykes. We must give up one half of our homosexual population for their depraved testing.

2.       Monetise the fizzy drinks. The People love their colas and lemonades so we shall use them to replace current commodities. It will be the first set towards cultivating a landmark city of the world, right here and roughly now. Make the bastards thirsty for it.

3.       String. We’d rather not say what we need to do with string but we do need miles and miles of it. Say seventy thousand, eight hundred and ninety six. It’s best you can’t read the flipside of this stone tablet.

4.       Plagiarise the weakest rock formations. The People have a strange passion for geology so we can always weaken them by taking over their pretty little hobby and completely ruining it with feeble facsimiles and tired regurgitations from bygone eras. It’s saved our skin before in the Battle of the Grand Girdle 1994.

5.       Write and then ghost-write eleven new love songs. The census has shown that most civilians fill their homes with soppy music without even the slightest hint of irony. That’s good, we can exploit that. We churn out the crap for the charts and they’ll be putty in our lower extremities. They might just let go or give us some room to landscape.

 

As the one remaining son of God, I implore you all to take arms and, wherever possible, adjudicate the exams of the soul. We don’t pay our cumulative weight in silver just to see Rome overrun by the man-eating People. Crucify a few of them if you must but always ask first, get a permission slip from their jaded mothers. I find that damnation is the same all around the square and in some of the major parks so we really should follow the necessary rules before matters get truly and definitively sticky.

And that is not a reason to destroy him! That guy over there, I’m talking directly to you and your curious huddle of friends! We can find our own vultures, thank you so very much! But, out of mercy of the day, I will spare you the rod and instead stare at your abdomen with an intensity unequalled in most outer counties. We shall plot all preceding events according to time and specification. We do have a war on you know.

31/08/2013 - ALL OF THE PICTURES WORK

            All of the pictures work but only in a Northern way. It's melancholy, scotch mist across a stuffed child's shoulders, whistling through the plots and subplots therein. The experimental herd goes out past the hills to shut down most unworthy topics of pert conversation. They are a hundred million strong and charge in on horses with wheels and firecrackers. The original French for this was something hypnotising and illustrative of assorted trout. I encountered other metallic wonders with my usual brand of maddening malarkey such as the ninetieth clock of boorish wax. You find most of its constituent parts in New York, wrapped in bags of lumpy custard but nobody's ever going to notice. The Erotic Chronicles chart the naturally progressive reviews of this custard-coated clock but the one bit I want to read are the crinkles near the middle, the ones that smell of lavender grass.

            There are many things writhing above and below the furled fragrance of nasty mysticism. Can we be comprehensive of dark matter for fifteen years? Can you ever hope to parp in the cheek of God just to show your significance? I'm sure it's made of silicon, it's always made of silicon. The entire Eastern hemisphere is tantalised with the prospect of imaginative silicon, the stuff of feeling sex all along its threshold. Amidst the usual passage of kinship in scientific development, I will shift you into a biro. This biro will be made of both wood and steel and other electronic bits and bats. Needless to say, it will be tremendous in its glorious babble, fantastic in its alluring waste of time. It's all chewable too, a fine way to work the jaw when whiling away the topsy turvy analogies of temporal movement. It makes me feel triumphant like a rock splurging on didactic platitudes that lap and lap and depend entirely on what I'm writing.

            I could believe in a signal to noise, the pain that swiftly became pan, the pan which died and regenerated into manna. I love all the talk about my baking prowess, it makes me feel like some sort of guardian angel sat atop a crossroad sign with a worry on my brow. If you eat cheese in front of me I will spit tuna into your line of sight, it is the way of all things scrummy. On Tuesdays I might even throw a bit of mayonnaise into the bargain but it comes out as it comes out. On Thursdays I will most definitely go 'ah' and spasm like a rabbit. I wish for an underwater burial, with diving bells and dietary requirements and everything. I could swim around the cops for a little while at least, as I lose my floating privileges and fall into my own jammy comic book. I'll probably remember the full-length stretch I did when the hawker pulled the stairs out from under me. It seemed like it would hurt but it was merely terrific. At that moment, I will feel just like a reprint.

30/08/2013 - HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

Hans Christian Andersen dyes the doctor’s hair blonde and gets away with it. Only HCA can manage such a feat of corpulence, he alone can disrupt the very cadence of nature in fluctuation. He makes animals talk and the devil’s own’s eyes gasp in the name of hereditary gumption. It’s the kind of sweet he likes to scoff when reading plagiaristic articles about his life. It makes his moustache smirk and fleck itself with cardigan fibres. HCA is a madman when it comes to cleaning lint off of his shoulder blades; they always manage to cut him somehow, like a rapier. It makes the rest of his limbs scatter.

Meanwhile his doctor is a woman and she isn’t taking no for answer from most of her sorry-legged child patience. She secretly wants to overthrow the comix scene with her own brand of miscreant hair gel, thereby creating spikes and a future of tapestry poking. She is a virtuous finger with a tape recorder but a bowing bounty for all those who seek medical professionals with blonde streaks in their hair. The actors she works for are reticent to say the least, Francophiles with sleepy directions going ahead of their scrabble scores. The tyre tracks are brotherly and sisterly, great no matter the gear rattled gender. To be so blind to genitalia is an implosive pastime, it’ll only result in volcano people coming forth to demand their money back from where there money has never been nor will ever even touch delicately. The daredevils shoot out of the woodwork and lay claim to the doctor and her HCA attacker, stating to the media at large that they are perpetrators of most unorthodox actions in the Middle East. The fantasy of a comix collection about painful doctrine is just that, a fantastic premise for a crafty yarn. Neil untangles those kind of yarns with a slippery calm, it knocks him right onto his centre and splits most of his facial expressions like a lip on a fat tiger.

This isn’t about Neil and his fiddly finger though, this is a testimony against Hans Christian Andersen’s gadding about in the waiting room. He was last seen flinging clipboards at erstwhile patients in the hopes that they might promote themselves to uncomfortable, wonky plastic chairs rather than the cushioned but significantly sinkable armchairs they are currently hogging. Fortunately his actions are so far for naught, who would want to give a fine upstanding storyteller anymore than his due? His characters are in support of his misbehaviour because they are his children and are simply expected to do so. If they ever broke their letter-based programming then they would simply cease to be fun anymore so I supposed we should take what they choose to regard with a pinch of cardiac arrest. That way Neil doesn’t get to unpick the really bad stuff ahead of his clientele’s wishes. There are two slices left for him to unthread so we’ll leave him at that. He’ll be happy enough.