He awakens to the clapping of palm
trees. It is not an unpleasant sound but yet beyond her immediate
concern. Getting the honey bearings has been complicated by a huge
magnet in the shape of a polar tortoise. Objectively speaking, they
are in the middle or somewhere entirely elsewhere at all. We must
insist on your full attention now. Please proceed down the while on
your left to the crow bar. What's the password? It is... toolshed!
Flashing neon lights appear like simmering coals in the birds eyes.
Positively gorgeous. He feels an Olympic pole vaulting competition
beginning in his breeches. Sighing with exasperation it orders nine
tiny bottles of Kahlua and starts kicking them back. Round the house.
The grinning jam thief behind the bar tried to put his birdie charms
on him but she wasn't interested in voodoo stick men. What a good hit
the 8th bullet was! A near miss on a home-and-away run scale. The
South-Goth club is becoming plagued with finger-lickin' chicks just
undying for his attention with their puppy dog eyes by Maybelline.
Getting too close to Southern comfort
he takes a step through the ever-present magic portal. One step two,
he finds herself in the fifth dimension. Picasso and Dali, Franz
Joseph and Balou having a go at poker. Now that's bound to leave a
noticeable burn mark. Wrong turn, one turn, two, aye.
Direction alive ahead, tactless march
through life until death do us a party. Back in the beginning of the
middle of the silhouette of a lifetime. The island pond has lost its
fund. The coconanas are all gone, replaced by an army of
non-commissioned sunglasses. The not-quite-like butter has been
spread a bit too thin. Oh, the glorious sorrow of spicy clothing
eroding at a dairy gala. Poof and all of it is gone for your pleasure
and mine. The sea on the shores is free to come and go indeed, as
sanctioned by the powers that be but the tides that bring us light
turn no longer. Brought back to life by a blue gun. One shot, two.
It is a pentagonal zoo that he finds
himself lost at. The gates are shut, the tickets have all been but
sold out for the price of nothing. The news come in every day, like
clockwork they drop by the lake of seconds. First one up, the
butterfly collection. The glorious Lady Strawberry and Miss Chocolate
Fondue flapping their wings, dressed in sparkling wine and the smell
of sun. Their hearts and minds are filled with springtime youth. Her
umbilical cord feels funny. All eight Irish feet tingling. Six for
him and two for her. Shaking off the eerie feeling, next one up is
the snake pit. A keyhole shining like the night in the snow, pretty
bright light. Oh you lovely creatures, why, women give you such a bad
reputation. Eat to your heart's contempt, choke on misery, you will
never find your way no matter how many skins you shed. Addicted to
junk pleasure, the creatures think but do not see! See but do not
think, live but have no life. Valuable lessons, picked from the trees
on the streets. Be wary of limes and bees. Do as you've been told,
jawohl!
Steps from behind, something is
charging him. A succinctly sly approach. The tiger parted its lips
for one last kiss. The desperation of aspiration. Its teeth were the
colour of mandarin. Discretion being the tool of virtuous violence,
violence being the king's modus operandi. Blessed under the Earth and
the Heavens. Even skylarks bow down before him. Thoughts of ticklish
sensations, many bright ideas. Living it large is not all that it
seems, the teeth and claws are ripping it open at the seams. The big
cat smiles like J.D.M.L. Happy or sad, it cannot be, its life all a
melodrama since it bit Adam's apple. The big rat is powerless,
despite its game, no amount of sacrifice can make a difference to its
name. A tiny creature left on the outskirts of an energy grove. The
furry peoples of the forest have given it up - left it to die without
a worry - its glow slowly fading, pulse slowing. Its life nectar
changing from red to purple, then to blue. He watches and he lingers,
the life is not his. He trusts not. Not once, not twice. But who
else? Anyone.
Human nature so easily revealed in her
sister's bosom. Pitch Black had always been the one not to believe in
fairy tales. The reasonable, cold blooded killer of the two illusions
that wasted their youth away. Cast and recast, the visionary shadow
upon the minds of the weak. Pitch black was always dealt the harshest
of punishments for her capacity to think: candle wax and ropes that
would gnaw deep into the flesh and reveal her sooty blood. Like
chimneys for veins, her sex throbbing with the silent smoke of
pleasure. Pleasure she would not want to admit. She would have to
make this campaign short, for the lack of dominating objectives.
There is red juice trickling like red paraffin off its chains. Hey,
Mr. Problem Solver, solve my problem, won't ya? Now don't ya? Wanna
be my happy pill generator with a big big smile to mark the sport.
You should fight it no longer it says on a poster. Have YOU already
got your pots and pans? Live your life in relentless happiness. Don't
dare to stray away, or you will be punished. Eat your corn plates off
your milk-shakes. Why not kill your shelf? He thinks chimes are
ringing with rhymes in between. Burn away, burn away little flower,
in the desert storm the fox will eat you up. Passion steam sauna, the
placards are running dry. Like the threats in this place. Give the
ants another day to die for! What is it that you really long for?
To keep me cool and composed, fix me
up, Mr. DoctorDoNoGood. Send the blind waves to the television
trans-receptor in my salmon head. She kisses the ground under her
feet. Imagine Gaia was a lesbian turning your strongest fixations
into a sun bed of marvel. Tanning, racking your brightest glares. You
are the infection of this place! The island within is a bubbling hot
canoe. Oh look, a pillar for caterers rolling on the ground, swelling
up and leaving a track behind but no one to follow it. The blood
spatter shows the murder was a flyswatter.
Your rambles are in shambles for such
an untidy fairy. Please, wishy, washy little fishy, don't be so lady
shy. Grant my three thousand and sixty eight more wishes. From Romeo
89 to X-RAY 5. You think you're so powerful, your life so secure,
full of gay pastry and menu enemies. Read my lips, this enema ain't
for you, you don't get it. Forget about it, these aren't your droids,
your brainless slaves to be. It is scared. With eyes bulging, with
fear in its breath, it tries to run. Get away to the furthest reaches
that no one can corner. Teach me how to survive and I will eat you
for breakfast. Miss Mooner, your invitations are always so blightful.
Happy Birthday Mr. Rocketman. 754 crisis for kingfishers. Slap on the
tummy and break no fast. It quickens. He takes a step past the fifth
room.
The Purest cradle, undulating over a
puddle, with an upside down monkey moon king in the middle. The
tiniest drop of cranberry juice contained within a metaphor of coy
smiles. The puppy-dog eyed kitten has transforming platforms to the
end of nothing. Gasoline fraud in a Pedro Paradiso petrol stop.
Conical structures blocking his tantric
path, a double pyramid spinning in the sky, its eye watching her
every thought. The way the signals spark between the synapses like a
lighter being used to set fire to the gasoline that burns down all
the houses that ever meant anything. The edge of the flame is blue
but the inside is indigo. Filled with all the colours of the sea and
fury, tiny particles of pure, distilled, hyper-condensed
attractiveness engulf all imagination. Feeling alive yet, dear? Or
just suffering from sour grout? Her poison lingers.
A basin of clear liquid simmering in
the icy cold, memories drifting apart like ripples. A cup within a
cup, the liquid at the core frozen, the other circle boiling. Not a
glimpse from one world to the other and yet those who freeze bless
the cold and those who boil worship the heat. A tantalising balance
outside the grasp of this ugly one. The hearts' desires of millions
being forgotten like the shimmer of air above it. He gulps it down. A
little bright light shines from her eyes, revealing the world of
ghostly moss. Everything covered in the greens, dark greens and light
blues of the shroom and seaweed magical take over the world combo
mutt. Drops rise up like orbs, fresh nothingness inside the super
bowl. He looks at one of them. A billion tiny eyes look back. it is
frightening. He shatters the bowl, digs a hole and sends the damn
thing flying. It disappears only to come back with a smack, a banging
boomerang. Funny, the hole wasn't that deep was it? But you never
know with reality, do you? Sink once, sink twice, think fast! Faster!
Sing a song beautiful songbird, trust
the seasons to sing along. A play of colours and the withering of
woe, all through the voice of gold. Its eye is blue, the other green.
Ain't that the darnedest thing you ever saw? Vines of good hope
pushing their sprouts through the soil made fertile by generations of
old. Blossoms of raw red shaking idly in the wind, giving suddenly a
heart to kill again. Drink the warm hot juice of life from all in
sight. Erase their limelight. Push it down and revel in it. Bathe in
it like the Queen of Arabia. The shower is just the right
temperature. Water to blood. Kain's miracle. He opens his mouth and
drinks it down. It gushes down, covering him entirely. The blood
flows freely, hear it roar! Drenched between the legs and breasts.
What a vision of perfection. Don't really want to tear yourself away
because it's far too tasty, like unadulterated orgasms seeping over
the tongue, down the throat, into the gut, making it all the way warm
inside. Now that is what should be called a funny delight. Make the
right choice, it's the right thing to do. Just save and load and get
it on. Why not just leave control at the steps and bite into chaos?
Over and done with, nothing to worry about. A slight nondescript
smile of amusement touched his lips as he turned away. Try though we
might, we remain a pack of lonely wolves. Roaming the five corners of
our little world, finding no solace in quantum leaps. He evolves, one
step, two. Three more to go.
Sing, little songbird, sing a song just
for men, sing a song while he pushes along through the mindless
crowd. The pale side of the moon was crying that day, no matter what
the gods tried to say. He sipped them up through a straw. Tasted
surprisingly like dogs, but with a hint of cliché hidden in the
after-taste. Convulsions, uncontrollable. Through silver and lead,
may her piece be with all those who wanted a taste of her koala
honey. Simple! He is but a flame, a spark in the winds, his corridors
are ever narrower now. Yet, his ageless moisturiser is as hip as
ever. Fault lines to the centre of the age that will make everything
crumble. Just pressure the point and the person you objectively are
either lies in the middle or somewhere entirely different at all.
Possibly down route 5 where dreams are scheduled to end and eternity
exists as unbroken trust.
