04/11/2013 - YOU CAN KNOW TOO MUCH

You can know too much of the melancholy tune, being a parapsychologist on the lookout for maternity wards. At least the compound rejected the absorption tests with corporate takeaway chow. Please call at my hotel and see just how deep the dictionary can get, and just how sodden at the pages. I apologise for such poetic license and would like to offer you a drink. You make it sound so menacing so go ahead and sit your lanky rolled-up calling cards down on the concerto sofa. I’ll be seeing you from behind runic symbols. These hands have magic powers by proxy like a cigarette under a witches spell. I must speak to the baggage handler about that, or the doctor. This is a pure case of autosuggestion.

Maybe we can be so foolish with our welfare just like the chemicals rubbing off in the pockets of thank you letters. How would you like to be friendly with rudimentary problems? I don’t do interviews with guys that aren’t journalists from the bridge, this standing around business pays too well for me to just accept anyone’s invitation to talk and talk and talk in circles. Again the man with the van dyke cannot be trusted with the demonic possession rate, he’ll sink all the magic tomes in his tainted proposition. It’s a delight to see you with village children being nice to Santa Claus. Before you see me, your uncle must weep with great principle. Mother would do far better to hold onto ice cream.

He really ought to be married to a top hat with Nordic snakes. Not a bit of it. I refer to the remarkable work of strange and terrifying creatures called the Life Decipherers. Any known language would be too much like witchcraft if it was a twilight differentiation. Can you see the wonderful practice going on in this corner of the transformer lines. You’re so right but how to prove my point? Exposure on southern winds. Howl while I become the plaintiff for once in my tiny, salmon-dotted life. I’m really not the man I say I am in England. You could use a stiff drink and a medieval miscalculation.

            Your death will be time allowed by the stickler cards. Mental disintegration will drop the way out for something more akin to the vagrant and how he sees the world. You could be the centimetre and I could be all the words you can’t quite pronounce stuffed in a run-on sentence. Can we be anxious in the foyer for a while? I’ll see you with hope in the holes and the yellow grange of your lovely party wide open and somehow balding. Uhuh. You get nothing for nothing and followers do it out of pure and pricey fears. It’s not mine to be sociologically cruel but the restraints will open the glass of milk and supernatural sleep. Eh. Come along with direct cause and we’ll touch up the hairnet. Where on earth is this remarkable prediction now?

03/11/2013 - LOW DOWN AND TOOTHY

            Low down and toothy in the mind, the egg unfurled like a polite neck crack and the pink came jutting out. No amount of short burst gunfire could keep this woman from shaking her baby, from seeking her dove population that surrounded the crib. Alarms went off and a thousand men named Herman came forth to claim parentage of a child that was quite clearly born of a blare and, in being so, party to no particular father. All personnel were evacuated immediately within four minutes: a new and glamorous record as far as the screech machine was concerned. Holding onto the rope had the same unsatisfactory effect as bashing the blazing blaze button. The little girls held their minimal safe distances and only then their breath started to come out to play. Goddamn fussy boots, the farmer said in his breathy, thoroughbred manner. Such a foul mouth. All kinds of lightning blazed to see such fun.

            The gate came ahead like a caped coil of conduct and my sobriety was called into oppression for as long as we both shall live and grieve. Utopia hits like a bowl full of punch attached to a fist and subsequently stripped of all its personal quirks. She threw the bow and my soul blew through her. It's okay, said the man with hayseed comb over, you lasted the metrical medical platforms. I hoped to take you off the bishop as his acid latched itself onto the squidgy hull but you'll do fine just as you are. I'm very glad you came. That was what I said, right here in this marked spot in the very same green dungarees. Since then I've been to Blackpool and Skegness for my holidays and haven't felt a thing due to all the wavy requiems and inquisitional devices. Long before getting back to here, revenge became uppermost in my mind.

            This is a caterwaul or can't you hear it? I forget these days just when in the day a gay individual can listen to certain indefatigable sounds. Sometimes they come out as mere zounds which make you feel all prickly like an organ donor amongst smart children. Victimisation makes a huge impact but the long-legged typeface that shuts the fuck up continues to pick me up and lay me on the table. I'm a guest, a bog standard guest with a two week spike to my cold, second hand name. These are my stories just as those are your ditties and riddles. Good products make for pathogenic music effects, stand by someone's marriage and it'll come to you. Your eyes normally interpret the event while you're sleeping and the cockroaches are updating the radiator for general purposes. They say the master of ceremonies will be getting married soon so that he can divide up his property with a good old-fashioned gold digger from the regiment. So far he's cruising the footbath spa and bedding swatch factories for short and sharp women with settled breathing patterns and some tattoos.

02/11/2013 - IRON FILINGS STOP DOWN THE CAR

Iron filings stop down the car, reduce its land speed and rectify its watchable content. The clown makes itself into a pair-bonding tub for the iron filings but ends up resembling more of a secret agent with its hair climbing and clambering left then right then zigzag to a semiquaver. London is full of Arabian wipes but the officers never thank you for saying so and that's because they're truly afraid of the man with the glasses and his puppy pylon cannon. Some would hurt but not all whilst the king lies in check. You shave off the guard's robe and do you know what you have? Sickness, blind sickness deep underneath the subterraneous ground. The only way out is the BIOS screen and that just makes my heart go all greedy with its webbed fingers and trial and error workout regime. Give me a hand, give me a curtailed woodland creature and I'll show you to the cloakroom with knobs on and sarcastic children at my feet. Its sometimes informative to reside in enemy cottages, doubly so for nemeses if you have any.  Allow for a repeat in the report and you can't go very wrong, not with these women.

            My kelp has peaked in its quantifiable interest faculties but the eyebrow actor is actively attempting to bring down my thumping sound system before it can reach the chorus line. It's all due to heritage and toad squirts that offer themselves every mile or so to Morpeth. The lobster pot rallies a reactionary crowd and trumpets the reclusive author as the ignoramus of the century. Are you stupid enough to try to make this a staple for your diet? Are you crustacean enough? They say these barcodes could help but I'm dubious. Help me to untangle myself and who knows what rapture might back up.

            There is diddly vertigo to hand out among the wealthy elderly. You've got to be kidding me to be selling any viable psychology books to these maleficent masses as they're out walking the dog. You've got an attitude like wheels that become territorial of horror downfalls, the weak spots in the franchise that otherwise would exist in multiple hardback issues. The stick men and their sausage dogs are enforcers irrespective of the soapy shower scene that's expected of all vaguely tanned individuals. This is Iraqi propaganda and doesn't even bother to be a killer of worthy eyeballs. I'm going to straighten out these children's men with a crowbar and a few dots of MDF, I'm going to make them into Jesus on the Nile.

            Bring your kettle and I'll call the department for back-up. You'd sooner regret attempting a toothpaste sonnet than clash with me again. This is key to all that is hooch, most that is spice and some that is vinegar. It keeps raining and the velvet of these robes really can't be bothered to keep the dampness out. It seems like I should have applied the sealant to the back of my thumbs as well.

01/11/2013 - RENOWN, A NOUN

Renown, a noun, a knightly deed that holds aloft its might steed and repels the terror of The Terror, slips a roofie to the weather, calls out in blocks of morbid text, to rap like rapid ninjas flexed to receive the hand of safety pipes and squirrels crowned by Wesley Snipes. As maternal fortune disappears, the black  soot arises white arrears and clods itself in caddish brown to go out fourthly to the town of cleaning implements from the letter 'e' and a worn-out picture of Billy Connolly, that claims to be papa from the colour of its curls and the drunken nature of its lofty twirls. But who would resurrect this meaning of the past? Who would wear the grey badges all along the arse? What kind of individual saves the body just to go out for milk, put out and be shoddy? This is the stage all the rookies go through with their heads twice as swollen, their necks thrice as blue. Duck and dive, dick and dove, renown is not a pretty thing to love. But I do.

            The wedding went ahead as public safety announcements usually go with the odd prophecy here and there coming ahead of itself, rustling up a consequence whilst the others are busy staring at the shine on their shoes and perhaps their lapel for its lint. So many sallow faces were worn by the bride that day that we couldn't quite get used to it without seeing her waspish thighs rotate at a few thousand miles an hour. The father of the bride was a toadstool for the day, which is a nice way of saying that he didn't give a rat's arse who was what and when the drinks would be served. As the afternoon went along with its murky hands working up in the clouds, glasses started to clink and wine was spilt as regularly as the sacrificial blood was. The flower girl screamed on her way down to the furnace but that's the real cost of a pretty yellow dress in this bulge in the catacombs. We didn't seal her doom though, bless her; she ended up just sitting on a few coals, flesh seared and party hat aflame. We managed to salvage the bride's veil from her before we shut the door. These little chicks gets so snappy-fingered at weddings where the woman of the moment is more of a contestant than a bride. The groom was hardly fabulous but we wrapped his tongue up in a deft construction. Can't wait to watch the First Night of the Honeymoon on the overseas channels. Let's see what we really taught him.

            As for the tidying away of the event, no-one really stuck around besides the DJ. He's still spinning discs because his contract is both existent and nonexistent depending on your interpretation of the playlist. His fingers are practically nubs of their former selves now but he's got the moves. Yes sir, that DJ can spin a lie.

30/10/2013-31/10/2013 - SO YOU SHOULD

So you should. And so you should. And so you should go on the scavenger hunt. And so you should be bad, as bad as bad can be when bruised by action heroes. And so it should be. And so it should be done on tiny little feet with casual jousting. It's a dangerously implausible conceptual design that goes up with the super jump and down with the print sales. I'm glad. What sorry pipe down is festering in a blind man's corner as the uncle plays out the dreaming? The sky could deliberate with the best and highest politicians whilst delving into poetical Peon Pigeon English. Could you train the programme to learn adventures from the perspective of electrified fences? Maybe it's time to establish an indium nun according to the blobs beyond the vestibule sunglass stand. Didn't. It could be nothing but creative but it's creative for nothing particularly creative. Watch out for the glass as it wears away and stirs itself into cold fissures. Tell us probably what to do and we might enter a boss battle for the good of our health. This mathematical formula is really hard but we can crack it with cumulative damage and a few rollerblade balderdashes. There is a pattern, much as we'd like to distrust the bird wreckers and their codes of pussy and yet I remain just as cuneiform as before. A priori. The heart travels the episode and switches on the stove for the little dawgs and frat boys. There's a dude deep inside who gets sick of this constant consonant skill storm and sets up Wednesday for grandma and her gaggle of street policeman. They were normal clothes over their super secret hive mind. You fail to certificate and levels of individuality will kill down the dreamy gymnastics and the conclusions they tend to avenge. We bought too much, the members are starting to complain in their Hindi tongues and their crooked fingers are unwinding the special versatile video tape that has no magnetic strips nor monstrous misgivings. Get out you gross black seamstress legs, shrivel up into something less bizarre that requires no pumpkin geometry or doorway crossways. Let's go check out the other buildings and sheer the anthology with piggish brusqueness, it's rushing back and forth with hateful rotundity. The three dimensional service features spooky music and a half-decent example, it primarily develops the workplace but not enough so that anybody notices. I don't make noises with staples normally but the black humour is increasing the humidity of the room, draining it of all humility and cocoon art. That is the hinge. That is the choo-choo that peaces out with basement horticulture so fuck the genuine article with its theatrical atmosphere. Every part of this building is terrified and yet strangely relaxed by the doppelganger callout. These voices drain down the corridors and tell every washing maid to take a hike with a few horses that remain within the carpenter's three walls. A door comes to life and dolls go off on tricycles. Zap.

            Zip. The loggers are capricious and filled with spiritual spit on the loose-handed locks of goal orienteering. An astronaut's mobile has been located on the lower freight elevator of the four star hotel, perhaps we should liken it to something pretty funny and from without. The sawing lets out primarily but the promotion defers cream cracker sandwiches with Lasagne qualifications. Wobble. Quiver. Where'd the ice come from? Who knows where it melts to in those sacrilegious little telescopic dots. Your swordsmanship gulps down the main ingredients of a Waldorf Salad and shatters any illusion that prospectors still exist and use their various tools and implements to torment horny teenagers in their wet, fondled car seats. The pencil breaks in two and all topical reasoning floats out from the lead, becoming its own big, curly diploma in the sky. We are all in the virginal margins because the maternity ward won't call until its half past seven. Livelihood marches out clowns on its own volition and perturbs the hearses with rosemary trees and the blackguards that protect them voraciously. The aardvark constitutes a bill of rights and rites from every tick box at the blue end of every red form. Vacuum cleaners approach with informal footsteps as if to challenge the pretty blonde Catholic in her standing and sometimes her sitting position. I have inspiration, my own brand, and it tastes of moist cloth rolled around in telephone wires until starchy and ready for mass consumption among the ballsy tree climber people. There's nothing awesome about this product ID, it makes the body of work all armoured and extraneous to Ghastly Toby's lollygagging fixture. Happiness makes the direct hit and lands its blacks right in the keyhole as if it were a kisser from 1963. Themes and effects, themes and effects, it's all about the themes and effects. It could be distributed with a fresh and clean outlook on the modern music scene but that may stray too far into the indie pocket and never get out again for all the lint and coarse language sweeties. Allow me to take this product tour while you set off the jetsetter's fireworks just to see the face on his briefcase melt down and rub off in a supportive learning space with all the necessary, applicable facilities. One size fits ambulant insomnia as it cracks through the tough part of a grand old mahogany tree. Neil is making a daring escape according to the principles apropos his hissing misalignment and henceforth unusual amazement scale. He lives in a village hall, a small, closed-off village hall for the duration of every coming storm just to see if anyone will come looking for him and bring him some tea and a few important documents to amuse his disquiet. The sequins on his short trail Valhalla as if in preparation for a bait and switch scheme involving a small bakery. The night is young and could use the tender icing.

29/10/2013 - IT RAINS LIKE COLLEGE GIRLS

It rains like drunk college girls in red sparkly dresses, their tights all lathered up and flung over their heavy shoulders. The sky shudders at the thought of another bottle on the last wink of the lust that circles and grinds across our hearty hearts and bendy straw legs. The big but is one that often gets left behind in preference of the chosen one, they just pick him out of the bag and she does his/her thing. Noughts. Cleanliness is next to cuddling in Sheffield. The taps runneth under the regulated speed limit for the first four weeks of good behaviour. And psychotic medication gets looked on with crackerjack vacation, a placid expression erupted by milky blinkers and a few bin liners here and there. As for the manager they wanted to spruce up, he has no back with which to glide around, he has a napalm stuck to the inside of his ribcage. He is surprisingly cool with this, he even makes jokes though they're often at the expense of black women in wheelchairs. He is Bosnian. This living detector yanks off his quick quirky knuckles and renames a few of the teams that play around in his head space without proper documentation or even a perky search warrant. The living detector is a soft touch with the women's netball team because who can really say no to ladies who tie up their hair and thump balls for a lark? The only downside is that the very thought of the brunette shifts his mind to the rectory without authentic sound bridges. The inside of the very nature of living detectors demand that people talk about them with a squeaky, popping concoction of fear and salesmanship. He made Colorado, before it was merely a shoddy portmanteau that terrorised local Irish villages without mercy or even minded mascots. But we'd all rather blow raspberries than suck up to his squinty impression of Jessie on the toilet. All weddings should go around made of sugary clouds filled with cleaning fluid and perhaps a few under the counter tropical hashish nibbles. All art forms should gel and gas their still life depictions before they gain sentience and ruthlessly eroticise granite countertops. As the bishop said to his beloved, now a former actress of the gentlemen's persuasion: YOU COULDN'T BE MORE OF A CENTIPEDE, MY DEAR. YOUR FEET ARE MANY AND YOUR IDEALS ARE BLISSFULLY FEW. This is swiftly followed by a chainsaw chase that leads into an erect form of the night time choir as they belt out a whistle tune in the style of hammy jazz. The leaves are all folding themselves into vibrations and pretending they can actually do something about the current outbreak in Syria. The wizened people from under my homogenised bed do everything in their power to invite and subsequently disinvite players from the big ice hockey match. As far as Saturday nights in Cyan go, the grudged could be a lot more manipulative if requisitioned by dry foot fiddlers and their bountiful board rooms.

28/10/2013 - LET'S GO DOWN TO THE TROLLOP YURT

            Let's go down to the Trollop Yurt, where the swing daddios are out for blood and yeast taints their hybrid skin like spandex on a cow. They pay homage to the malignant exclamation mark, openly worshipping it in front of their dwarf parents without the lengthy anecdotes. The words give in to swathes of silken strap-ons and appalled palindromes, submitting in five quintessential ways that will hitherto remain nameless in spite of their credible use in back garden politicking.

            Variety staggers their blind logistics and creates stumps out of the many limbs of farce, drinking deep from the varicose veins, drinking in the radio sweat. The show shows itself out of the shower and buys a buxom ticket for buxom buoyancy before letting its metaphysical hair down at the Doe End Bar.

            I've been in this town long enough to learn that green lights mean help is close to hand but I'm still yet to truly appreciate the concept without the incomparable aid of hefty signposts. You've been in this town long enough to be well in spite of all the naysayers and other afro people, in spite of all the bile they set alight just t see if we can feel empathy for sacred fluids. We can't. We can't take your car without taking my laptop and perhaps a bottle of mutual champagne lotion to christen the saviour of our naked jaundice day. Pretty soon it becomes a case of a race around driving tracks anyway.

            This is exactly what I've been talking about with my loose leaf partner, this is exactly the point where the shark is jumped over and remains in a perpetual state of vicarious exhaustion. The miniature world closes in its gills and grows out into brothers that feel different things depending on the strength and direction of the wind. It doesn't have to be magical but that does usually help speed up digestion of repetitive matters. It's a truth too akin to wrinkled vessels, it ruins its own moments with victorious fist bumps and elaborate toilet water dances.

            These loops are killer fodder, these loops at your feet. The loops currently at my feet probably won't do much at all aside from tighten and tick off socialists. I'm passive aggressive but even I know when to let rope go and get back to work. It's my humble duty to inform you that the tea party won't be commencing until you open out the hat trick and show exactly how it is done without making any sly digs at economical matters. Good people die every day because of the fat fryers that continue to belch out internal combustion kisses in the rarefied speak.  Drool is the only blotch on the lip of freedom, it is the lasting imperfection that no woman can ignore. Even the transgender community will come out and videotape your excuse for such lackadaisical hygiene. Even the dudes will slap you a rotten one. Your only solace will be God's limitless credit card advert.