stepping back briefly I’ll regale this from
My room: During the watching hour, where the
Only sounds may stem from nothing at all -
Neither the white wash walls, nor the faux pine
Floor - She whispers softly, ‘Samson come back
To bed, there’s no more hair left on your head.’
I lie on my side, thinking in my head
What if a Danish King’s halo hung from
My left ear as a ‘parting gift’? Hark back
Now to Dali’s workshop where, under the
Pallid strip lights, his drab heart might just pine
To beat once, or maybe twice, or at all.
In a small church in sector seven, all
Things stand still. I watch a small, smiling head
Flicker once, and I sigh. The things I pine
For are silly sometimes – does it stem from
All the bad things done to you? If not, the
Thought alone, at least, keeps bringing me back.
The faint shade of Hamlet’s papa comes back,
And forgetting myself, I give my all
To back his wild claims: that love will birth the
Poet amongst blossoms – What a bonehead…
Skeleton, your eyes have lost their warmth from
Your mindless pledges and all things propine.
Gently I finger a book’s soft, worn spine,
Turning it, I read the blurb on the back:
‘This is where Caesar stood and built Rome from…’
Hmm? A text message… Come now, one and all,
Don’t tell me that I’m in over my head,
And to prove it, I’ll end my speech with the…-
Pausing, I realize that Samson, the
Ancient mariner, the ghost - so vulpine,
And the church, are all locked, not in my head,
But in my heart! ‘Arachne, please come back
To me! I’ll make amends! Join those, who all
Sit down beside me, and see where I’m from’.
The gloomy thoughts we found inside my head
May stem from nothing other than lupine
Desires of a back up, who gave his all.
Stepping back briefly, I’ll regale this from my room
During the watching hour, where the only sounds stem
From nothing at all. The white wash walls want to loom
Over the faux pine floor, but my gaze prevents them.
During the watching hour, where the only sounds stem
From ice cubes and dead dreams. Could we really melt now
Over the faux pine floor? But my gaze prevents them
From walking skywards: one escape death will allow.
From ice cubes and dead dreams. Could we really melt now
To live for the moment and sleep for the second.
From walking skywards, one escape death will allow
Is slumber, of which I’m particularly fond.
To live for the moment and sleep for the second
Under such pallid light, causes such blood red eyes.
Is slumber, of which I’m particularly fond
Hiding trembling secrets in freshly dressed eyes?
Under such pallid light courses such blood. Red eyes
Shine from sockets, of skeletons in the closet,
Hiding trembling secrets in freshly dressed eyes.
Were they worth it? You know all the bad things you do
Shine from sockets? Of Skeletons in the closet:
They always seem so far away in this minute,
Were they worth it? You know all the bad things you do
Cause dulcet tones to now be a force of habit.
They always seem so far away. In this minute
My sanguine sensations may birth the poet, but
Cause dulcet tones too. Now, be a force of habit,
No friend request causes another door to shut.
My sanguine sensations may birth the poet, but
All should now be clear from my brisk winter chill walk.
No friend request causes an other door to shut,
I see off Persephone and log on to stalk.
All should now be clear. From my brisk winter chill walk
I pause and wave goodbye to the migrating birds,
I see off Persephone. And log onto stalk,
May kill off Miss Muffett and spill all of her curds.
I pause and wave goodbye to the migrating birds.
From nothing at all the white wash walls want to loom
‘May, kill off Miss Muffett…and spill all of her curds’.
Stepping back briefly, I’ll regale this from my room
Enter King Lithos followed by his younger brother, the sorcerer Piaget, and several attendants, all dressed in pale regalia
But brother hast thee not forseen the truth
Nor wished to be a part of it? Hear me
Speak these words, but nay in vain, merely forsooth.
Enough now boy, you witter on, so give
Me peace upon this darkened hour. rosy
Claims you maybe have, my deafness forgive,
Yet still you pester me only to ask,
‘whether to take the sunny primrose path,
Or go the way of Antig’s late father?’
Come now men and sway my kin. I’ll show him how
In my absence, ages will come anon.
I take my leave, oh brother fair, sorrow
Will visit thee from time and age bygone.
The attendants gather round Lithos, fussing over him. His mind is clearly focussed elsewhere
Fie on’t! Be gone worms. Leave me with my thoughts
Lithos paces slowly, muttering to himself. He is interrupted by the door to his chamber opening. A very odd looking gentleman enters.
Alone I seek to be in peace, and yet
They dare act as if their mind forgets!
Who goes there sirrah? Who goes there?
My liege, my king, your kin has sent me from
Lands beyond your realm of rule where science
Doth not tolerate a fool. With aplomb
I’ll lend thee rede, if thou lend me silence
You fordo yourself cap-à-pie strange knave!
Now bid adieu betimes, and get thee gone.
Be soft, behold Lithos, in sooth I speak
Annunaki waves his hand and Lithos stops, as if unable to move
I seek a skull of crystal quartz, milky
Is its hue; descended from a far-off time,
Cut by the ray of waking atomies,
And bruit by quaking Aztecs as a crime.
Or lend me the secrets of the Dogon -
The moons of Jove; his father’s icy rings,
A knowledge of the stars across aeons -
Welkin gods who keep their subjects waiting.
birds are robed in moist heaven,
Vimanas misleadingly rule the sky
In the east, where stone cities lie ashen
On the cusp of golden rule, blinded eye.
Methinks I hear the drum coming hither,
Visions of stars, columns of fire do flow
Marry, and from the Gate of Gods will come
Star brothers who passed through rock long ago,
And carved monuments to humanity -
Pecha Gasha’s pair of smiling faces -
I must be fain, believing Markawasi
Belike to be your own mankind’s birthplace,
An inland lake, as usual as desired.
Thus, far into the bowels of the land,
Alack, will lie a temple so tired,
Hidden from view by lakebed’s whitest sand.
But pushing east and we will find, the great
Slate home of aged Japan, just below
The waves. So aged, and yet how to date
A triangle pool, and a thousand moe?
Göbekli Tepe, still, an aged hub,
Ancient, supine and silently dormant,
Amid white monoliths, ay there’s the rub!
Betwixt logic and brain, but yet still present.
Father of the Carnac Stones, hallowed be
Thy name. When straits of rocks are edged by discs
Architects earn a name in history,
Alas, alack, as names will last anon, so brisk.
Annunaki waves his hand and Lithos is unfrozen
What kind of madness strikes me down as cold
And as still as a marble Grecian urn?
Demon! Begone from these chambers!
Lithos, thou heardst the grand tales of thy past,
Yet you misprise and refuse to listen
I share with thee wealth intended to last
And answer the pain caused by orisons.
You seek not me, but thine own greater gain
Truth will out, hear me now; trouble be thy name.
Fool, misplacest thy words. Look upon thy
Kin, and ask him how thy rule will endure…
Fie! Lout! Fie! How comest thou here? Cozening
My brother? Swiftly shuffle thy coil off -
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!
Annunaki turns and leaves. Lithos slumps to the floor
And see now how an empty room can cause
One’s pained relief – did I misprise my faith
And in effect, banish one who haply
Spel’d for me all that glitters is not gold?
Lithos slowly fades until he has entirely disappeared. The poet picks up his pen
One morn before the sun was full, I dream’d
So serene, that ere I knew, my hands arose
‘Midst sparkling brooks and dappled sunlight’s beams,
Like things possessed with an urge to compose
A verse or two, as if by some command.
Cerulean Lotus flowers glitter’d
Gold upon the cool, glassy lakeside edge,
Drifting in a gentle breeze, calming; and
So very much at ease, like sailing ships,
Azure bloom’d buds sojourning by the sedge.
Mine fingertips grabbed fast an inky pen
To scribble down my thoughts: A glass slipper,
A country wench - my sweetly tempered wren -
An opal gem, betwixt two evil sisters.
With helpful hands from far off faerie lands
Cindy slipped on her dress and vaunted to
The ball. A goodly Prince stood so transfixed
And soak’d in sweet love, silent and unplanned;
Anon twelve chimes, farewell sweet Prince, adieu,
Swift sought, alas, his heart remained unfixed.
How is it, letters now furnish the page?
How came a bak’d boy fled far from his home,
Given chase by folks he sought to enrage;
The cow, the horse, and the fox made sweet moan.
My Bewitch’d fingers curl round the pen
Scratching blue rivulets line after line
Detailing the tale of the gingerbread
Boy; an idle ploy tried time after time,
Regaled in text, only failing when
I faded away and the boy lay dead.
Moving on past the confectionary wake -
My fingertips are flowing down the page -
A home of melancholy will forsake
Poor Hansel to life in a witch’s cage.
Now, now, little Gretel will sweep and sweep,
As the brother grows fatter, the sister
Shrivels sweetly in the heat of the fire,
Burnt to ashes, the witch will sleep and sleep.
Full grown words show the bloom of letters:
A sticky ink, a rhetoric quagmire.
From the fresh ground oozes a mighty stalk
A trellis’d sprout grown from some magic beans,
Where leaves are letters and the fruit can talk
And titans steal things you never have seen.
O Jack you were a selfish shade, always
Indolent, careless, and extravagant.
Listen now; don’t wring your hands, callous’d though
They be; climb the stalk and so make your way
To a world where geese lay gold for a giant -
Three times Jack came, just to add to his woe -
Alas now Jack, he fell straight to his death,
Pain had no sting and from his ribs, seeped a
Mighty fain; wolves would huff with their last breath,
Desperate to lead little girls astray.
She trust’d him, red maiden most unmeek,
I recognize him - the raw, hairy beast -
As mimicking the demon Poesy,
Scourge of nana, the latter now deceased.
Scyth’d idiom’s slice through his lying cheek;
Finger caught rigid, words drift to mine eye.
No tears of mine are these that fall, gushing
Down the cheek, now wipe thine eye little puss,
And dress in your attire; boots so dashing,
One can’t believe how quickly lies will schuss,
Spiralling out quickly from underfoot
Simply to please your master, the Marquis
Of Carabas. Sweetly, your savoir-faire
Would carry lies here and there, so put
His clothes away and wait quite patiently,
For a King of France and his daughter fair.
O folly! Words doth flow still from the tip
Of a dainty quill, and spill right off the
Page, and weave themselves a flush, new courtship;
There once grew a flower of such an aura;
It crept into the dreams of two lovers,
Who were cursed by the aged Dame Gothel.
A daughter was born and they could not bear,
To forsake her, and the pain they would suffer.
Everyday Gothel, would tell the angel
‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.’
The silken rope flowed forth gold like a stream,
A prince came to aid his angel inmate -
So pull me awake from the living dream,
That the poet must suffer, to create.
Mine hands were possessed by an idle foe
Who stole his tales from a blue faerie world;
Verses are done; my young spirit is sapp’d;
I’ll sink betwixt the Lotus buds now furled,
Seeking rest ‘midst the beryl river’s flow,
Where I awoke and stretched to a life unwrapped.
Having finished writing his last line of poetry, and upon seeing the page was full, Tom set his pen down on his desk and reclined in his chair. He stretched his arms fully, and scrunched his eyes together as he yawned loudly. He held the stretch for a moment, as if frozen in position, before allowing his slender body to fall forward over the desk. The pale sunlight melted through the nearby window, bathing the white, acrylic desk in the delicate sheen that only spring can provide; at once, both warm and cool. Resting for a moment in the faint heat, he brushed his hand through his soft, brown hair, sweeping his fringe back over his ear. Instinctively he reached with his right hand to the place on his desk where his mug typically sat. As always, it was sat on the right side of the desk, usually balancing on a pile of books; Keats, Shakespeare, Joyce, Burgess, and the like. His fingers gently wrapped themselves around the cool ceramic handle of the mug, and rousing himself, he left the comfort of his bedroom and trotted downstairs.
The kitchen was one of the few shared rooms in the house, therefore it was naturally the dirtiest. The large French windows allowed a lot of light in during the spring and summer months, and so the kitchen’s grubbiness was constantly amplified in plain sight, leading Tom to question why it was that his housemates preferred to keep their own space tidier than a communal space. It seemed, to him at least, to be the antithesis of good housekeeping.
He picked up the kettle from the faux pine worktop and, as he had done so many times before, flipped the lid open to check how much water and lime-scale was floating at the bottom amongst the filaments. Thankfully the count was low on both occasions, and so he swung the kettle under the steel tap and unleashed a torrent of water into it. He filled it half way and replaced it on its little white dock, before flipping the red switch. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, Tom swilled his mug out under the tap. The ceramic interior was thickly coated in tea residue, and where he had previously stirred his drink with a spoon, the terracotta sides were left scratched and scraped, as the residue was eroded. It bought to mind the deserts of Peru and the strange lines that were dug into the sand.
As the kettle slowly heated the water, a faint and misty steam began to slowly twirl up and up from its spout. Tom held his hand over the steam, recoiling only when his hand was damp with hot condensation; his palm was rosy and stung a little. Gently he placed his hand over his mouth and exhaled, condensing his breath into a visible mist, his tender lips flushed healthily under the, now receding, heat. Tom thought back across the afternoon so far, how he had wasted so much time thinking about the essence of love and then letting his mind wander, before, finally, getting any kind of writing done. It was a very inconsistent work schedule that he was adhering to. His face was pale in the light of the sun so he held his hand up in front of his eyes; this not only enabled him to see but also illuminated the carmine blood that coursed thinly around his hands and body, ebbing and pulsing like a coastal tide.
The red switch clicked and a cloud of steam billowed densely out of the kettle’s spout, coating any nearby cupboard, or microwave, in a fine film of liquid vapour, hot and sticky. Tom poured the scalding water into the dark, scarred interior of the mug, and opened a nearby cupboard in search of a teabag. Upon opening a second cupboard his search was rewarded and he pulled out a box of Indian chai tea. Fluidly he removed the bag from its casing and proceeded to gently dip it in and out of the mug, letting the rich aromatic flavours imbue the boiling water. He continued to rhythmically dunk the teabag over and over, becoming almost entranced by his own simple motion. Eventually he let the bag go and watched as it sank quickly, fading from view beneath the murky burnt copper colour that the drink had assumed. He grabbed the mug and, somewhat foolishly, attempted to sip from its contents. However, the heat of the liquid forced him to withdraw his lips from the ceramic mug, before he had even managed to taste the tea within. Resigned to waiting for the drink to cool ever so slightly, he turned and left the kitchen, mug in hand, and stomped back up stairs, his every footstep sounding through the thinly walled house.
‘So…I guess the tea break’s over,’ he mused quietly, replacing the steaming mug of chai tea on his desk, on the right side as always. Taking his seat, he stretched his legs out and, once again, leaned back in his chair, a couple of sharp clicks implied his stretch was a success. He sighed and then blew gently on the surface of the tea; looked at his pen and realised he had nothing to write.
The wind blublublblublu through castles of crystal that grew from hilltop’s clay
Stroking the parapets that glimmered and fade glimmered and glamoured and
Buds burst and petals lazed indolently all over lolling gently to the bruheeeeze
Curling gently in conch shaped shapes slowly round and round and round as it washes
Up to the weald to carry the quiet bzzbzzing of bzzing bees the poor little merry engines
Scared of the sacred one two thriae of apple lollipops bzzing holy yolks hatched
From the sun’s tears long buried beneath the sand bzzbzzing softly for me bzzz and
Tussling amongst the bzz green leaved truheeeeze bzz if you could listen I’d carve ears on the
Inside of my eyelids bzz all to help you hear bzz ’ere stelly on now be gentle when chiseling
We want Horus to hear this silent chorus bubbling along on the anemoi bzz I thought
Anemones an enemy enema eneid no aenead ay knee add ay knee knee udd
Writhing lithely on the bottom of the sea rather than carrying wooozyshh quietly wzsh
Too much nectarine pulls petalled manes to listen inadvertently
Listening to the mur-mur-muring of hasty breaths that sweep meadows of emerald blades of grass
Winds that dance along dead branches clad in denim jackets lined with golden fleece
Winds that wince winding winches within windmills without windowth widowth with
That thilly thausage thtares at highly distinguished vats encapsulated postulated und absquatulated
Dance an instance cancer ‘er canter like lancelorra expansive taste dahlink cum along come
Along all come long well Al on ong kum by ah come by our yard
Dead deed dedalus did the deedalus must at once repent for being credulous with loose lust
Branches born into a burgeoning bourgeoisie bored of white scenes sheens she shells she sells
Denim double denim duodenum doduo dodo do do do be do bop bop ski-bop
Jackets jack it in cashing in on yaks in thickets yakkets immacky you lutt
Lined lie listlessly lie lifelessy lie laying quietly breathing lie softly bed head lie listening lie
With witches writhing ivy trees prescribing poison symphonies sympathy with the vuh vuh
Golden go on then go all then goo all dens goal dense pains fens most jejunely hydraberry finnk
Fleece I beg you fleece free them from the freezer fleece help Heracles Heracrosssshhhhhh
hhhh iris darkling so supinely ah shhhupinity shhheschew the tongue shalivate and shwallow uhmpf
fwooozzzeeesshh through posies so dozy hang heads, elbows piqued on little green leaves
Heads lollolling basking lazing in the warm eff ul gee ence, soaking lapping bathing
Until they are chlorlorophullyumyumyumyumyum sunlight inmytumrhshorussh
shrussrusthshrussszzsswwss the reeds whisper loudly discussing my asses ears
Ptee idees swelling from bud to leaf swinging legs from the branches of a dream
Ssrrruoothshrussszzsswwssthe reeds quietly listen to gawdy die ass rshss
ShhhhhShh Shh Shush glimmer glamour silence spreads to the reeeee’s…
Quiet lea now gold, now weaved now stitched now knitted by all you vile waters
Lapping and ebbing and flowing and eddying and charlying and simoning and diving and ducking
In and around lethe currents so somnolent, solemn solololomon molasses nibbling grasses
Tides of green always greener on the other side eyed monster with envy subdued behind dark flaps
Flanked with lashes bear hat guards standing tall and sharp don’t move for no man standing guard of
Iron roots copper branches and silver leaves glued together as egg drizzle bayownet topiary
aoooorghh aoorgh bees can’t fly he tells me too fat too round doesn’t stand up pound for pound tiny wings
According to the ancient scripts of the mahabharatatatablahblahblahblaharababata and the holey babble
Silly things buzzy sings prickly stings all bumbling and fumbling stroke twice firm but nice
But alas feted prince of most good fellows you disclose the discourse of distaste its sunny xunny zunny
Sunday xunday bzzunday road to mandalay no next left cracked dirt track to mandy lane you will not
Teach elephants that they cannot fly by flapping their pegasus ears, equine aural receptacles listen still not
Aeronaughty-aerodynatically-aerodybbukkally-cally whines flustered sweaty faints carried too much
Golden netaim too heavy too sunken into the ground hair like a shrub must water before aphilopecia
Curl up close eyes within eyes labyrinthine running from locus lands of desolate dreamers flee forward
To annwn and when asgard as hard cockaigme all over king ahh fuh- camelot maybe if we look you too peer
Utopia and mount but not limp us if you want to shangri-la-shag-girl-share-a-laugh she purred so alligatory
Maybe that’s what happens when evergreens decide to be deciduous cedric the cedricuous cedar sit her
In the cellar but alas said her egg drizzle binds us all warts and copper and iron and cocks and all
Stroke twice firm but nice smiles in the darkness warm as a minotaur’s snort warts and all she said
Reveal all she might have said lose it all she probably said take me she would have said prickarus
Plunges sunwards until light is dark and cosily coital string threaded in a shell master of the fast escape
Two tugs and your loose projectile river of lithe not lethe saturate and landscape the grey sunken
Cunt of the world planting trees swollen with buds bursting into leaves perfect hatchery for bzzing bees
Shrunken recoiling recoitaling hibernation quietly kipping simorg having sigorged shh yawny yawnerson
Luh eye suh uoh fuh tuh luh ee buh eh duh huh ehh duh yawny yawny break of yawn yawn flakes
A spat of spatchka mid afteryawn napka to rest a gulliver so fajjed from everynowhere and
Noeverywhere razzling and dazzling rascalling around rasoodock blame the nap das nerp zas noot
Zasnut zasnoot sew choodessny chepooka.
Blasted awake my malchicks, shocked out of the old zasnoot straight into the fashed and fagged lethy
Cannae sprecht, rub me glazzies real horror show, right sooty and spatty and sandy; let’s get it straight
Sir Sandicent of veckicent: kupe one’s humble self a sneety again and I’ll do you in real Freddie.
Blink odin-dvice-odin-dvice. Welly, welly, welly all’s right as rain brothers, all present and correct like,
A malenky snatch won’t halt that. Oh still so rozhy, turgid and swollen, tozhy, rollen and swurzy.
Must viddy, rabbit and that, slovos for me glazzies to nibble, all that hot wet ink stained
Onto the page: short sharp shives of black, perfectly stacked to attention, like rifles. Slovoozy
In the one glaz and out the other, always the same and changing, if things ain’t so sparkly clear
Then meaning comes to thems what wait and wade through jumbled pictures my young droog.
Thou viddy that rusty fakery as though it were silver spun spoons, tomed torture
Lying with phallacy and fallacy, thrusting page after page, through to the sticky glue
Of the binding. Listen to naughty, naughty, naughty lie upon sickening lie. What’s a story,
But a clever way to lie, to cheat, to crast, to hackney together slovos in a cobbled raska of sordid cal?
A Holy babble of slovos chetruka; your humble narrator sat here and scribed them for one’s dobriety -
What’s it going to be then? Shall I see through his glazzies – crystal clear, like an unmuddied lake, like an
Amethyst sky of deepest winter night, shining stars winking like devotchkas on heat? Viddy well then the
Mundane parlance, viddy well all wistful govoreets viddy his, pathetic jelly demeanor; awkwardly
Avuncular. Bolnoyingly false. Give me Kafka poisoning the page and skriking his gulliver in frustration,
Skriking and skriking until the scalp krovs, his neatly combed voloss thinning and failing. Instead open up
To a Malenky chelloveck of filthy looky wooks – devil dark voloss, bushy rotloss, old newspaper skin,
Deng clerk, and your humble narrator ist thus seized and thrust amongst his glazzies,
Leaving this jeezny to become a giant bolshy wolz squash me like the plague I surely must be!
I need not you or you or you, leave me to my room, hidden amongst broken chairs and burnt pixie dust,
Let me bury myself in the fluff and snuff it of erotic asphyxiation - pleasure death. Let the flies eat me,
Chomp me up good and proper, banish me from smot, from rasoodock, and from your dorogy jeezny.
As the oppressed masses neez the rotting pizza, we art the brothers who strug-(flip the page)
-gle , the flowers that bloom. Pluck delicately and present to beau – Hi, hi, hi there Lovely Lolita,
Miss cuckolder of white widowers, you are most surely invited, Miss malenky devatchny,
Nazz one’s domy for the ol’ in-out-in-out, real savage, bent over like, now run run run along
Miss light of my fire, Miss fire of my loins; stamp it out and smash it up; lola Dolores dololly: baby lamb,
Fed chocka of humble humbert – Mr scumble scumdert, bastard Charlie in the new kind of torture
Nein wine and dine, just whine and din; only solvos to play with instead of beautiful technicolour plumage.
Only here to read the meter Miss - Already capitulated, only just snuffed and spatched with Miss Mary Rose.
(Close the smooth, glazed cardboard cover and return it to the shelf) much to mull over quaintrelle.
Some place different, some new, fresh, kind of travesty to halt this zasling rasoodock, praps that fat stinking
Billy goat, Georgie-niney-eighty-fourwell. Herr Winny bratchny: always razzing, always drezzing such filthy
Silly gloopy grazzy surzny; mozg plied ‘gainst bezoomy, such an obvious choice you globby bottle of cheap,
Stinking piss. Join the horror sheck cellovecks, we all are; when you make no rasoo all the lewdies pony you:
They shriek ‘get the sod out the way!’ Glooey moodge and zetlenk metaphors of freedom and fragility,
I’d like to take one’s glass paperweight and smash it. Pick it up, and throw it (flip page) Fucking hell, I’d nay
Pass on the ol’ eegra enjoyed with Miss Jules that raunchy day in the park; most devoid of grass,
Muddy. Grazzy. Your palfrey were as brown as a berry; rapscallion, sonny jim me lad. Confusing ‘tis
All the double govo, double mess, doublyness, sin is hate and hate is war, war and pace -
Flipping and thumbing; smottling page after page for an insight, an instance of just one old friend…
How long now brown scowteena? I’ve been waiting a real long raz you blithering bovine,
You audacious oxen, you prattling, doltacular, inelegar, vulgant, winstonian philistine: lordy lordy
Mr Bloom is far more likely to pooh-pooh the idea as egregious balderdash, fiddling with finicky
Haberdydasch. Stick in the mud – proverbial elongated bracken based boscaged copsulated ferrule circa
Popular definitive article – darticle – waxiquid compound of granulated skuzzy chicanery and hydrogenated
Oxygen (atomic weight: 15.9994; atomic number: 8; density: 1.4290 g/l at 0°C and 760 mm pressure).
What was that? Who were that? Someone, somewhere of job age must surely be scribbling beautiful visions
About perching high up on a rock. (Paper shives fingers; malenky fleck of tired krov dribbles) high up on
A ledge, so thin your narrator be oddy-knocky mit no droogs, no pee and em, no ptitsa; just two tootsies,
Plesking waves and everlasting nochy for company. Not much room at all, oh no no, no.
Pushed out of one’s room by a strange fella, so much for lingering around for millennia. But! Still ajeezny –
Better to jeez than to snuff it at once ay! Jeez and jeez und jeez & jeez, jeezy jeez! So true,
How true! ….so true! Such a vile concept from frightful creatures, and vile ist mir for calling thou ‘Vile!’
Rascal Nikky calm yourself, so tense all the sodding zeit. Don’t poogy they won’t find out that you done an
Oobivat til much later yet. That’s a lot of turning, a lot of stroking to go through yet boyo,
Caressing raskazzies gently, flitting from glyph to glyph, symbols so sladky, all cloyingly coy:
Nowt is harder than govoreeting the truth, nothing easier than flattery though, so:
Ahem, Yes, sir! That's exactly who I am and what I am, sir. A victim, sir! A victim of meandyoullegory sir!
See our bolnoy malenky litson tell no one of our strife. From falling off colourful mosaic canopies to
The bitter sibz tundra, right sickly pale all and tundry, a flatso litso covered in sparse, scraggly stubble.
Slump your spaghetti wrist through this here shiny armlet and descend into the abyss,
Swirling brusquely, dancing like a cat on a hot tin roof – what a sight! - Spinning around the shiny gums of
A Dragon, his nozh honed and his zoobies creamy saffron; P and U. The stench makes you want to be sick.
Creech loudly as he vreds your scales and OH! You creech brother. You creech most loudly.
All about my gulliver echoes one’s scribed creech, anguished and molodoy; the creech of one malenky
Malchick sailing a boat to an island made of nochyness. A malchicky-wick who shed his scabby
Wings, just so that he could swim with mermaids and other forelli: Mr Mackerel. Miss Tuna. Mr Manta Ray.
All the above, kind sir, go on plesking and kerplesking skolling me tenets and axioms, directing
Me forward towards a most flat domy on the hills. Enter (lick thumb, flip) and sit. Rozzers everywhere.
Fillying with skinny nozhy and treasure troves of nothing.
Now then, now then my pretty pretty polly bobby bobson: Must I leap and curl up like a koshka,
Barking bezoomy; must I nestle in the groody of his messel? One yarbleless eunuch lectures me and
Points at a bicycle. ‘That’s Professor De Selby’ he says, elaborating thustrally ‘he hates teratological
Molecules, and can make whiskey in a week; it’s a shame he’s lost some of the sheen from his spokes
Though, do they not teach you this at school? You must have been away a mighty long time son’.
I agree. No school for me then. Got to get fit, or I’m most surely liable to miss a whole lot more lessons.
But first let your humble narrator suggest that maybe the lewdies who kupe most of their jeezy riding bikes
Over the cobbled streets of the parish of little cobbledon jiggle and bobble their personalities, with the
Personality of the bike as a result of jiggling and bobbling atoms?
Sergeant Inspector Detective Corporal Rozzer Pluck states quite expertly that atoms aren’t real because
One can only shive ‘em circa malenky cheese, and suggests that I be a real horror show jeb, all quiet like,
Promising me that slovos be slovos and what really happens is that I just read a sentence and jumped to
A logical conclusion. I thank him for pointing out the obvious floor. Wooden panels, cold to my tootsies,
Spat goolys but a loss of krovvy results in paralysis and numbness and painful pins and needles.
Most braüned off to say the least. One’s Mug of chai is now chilly also, shouldn’t of fallen zasnooty, no poa;
Too much reading to slot; in chards as the ol’ glazzies vays and platch of their own accord. Sod the pages.
Need to slot elsewhere (close book) need some bants (drop on desk) must weasel need some nuttiness.
Life is certainly no reality show. Deet’s the shamour? Deet are the nonars? Cuntona and her vile ilk?
The ratings just ain’t what they used to be ay copper, see, we need some real horror show carnage baybeh,
And that’s the game you reprobate: spreading carnaggio far and wide like soft butter; sure. Come on.
Come on. Oop. I have! I mean…I can’t…Oh Jesus, here we go.
Time to leave reality at the door and all that
Viddy what the lads are doing.
Haytch tee tee pee semi colon forward slash forward slash dubya dubya dubya faye’s book dot com enter
Thomas, see what’s at mail doth come tabitually, pass the slovos over ere enter
Bantz aka. Jebz
Five months ago
Friend 1 added friend 2 and friend 3 to the group
Friend 4 added friend 5 and friend 6 to the group
Caaaaaaahmmm on; don’t muck about – don’t muck… - cumon – come on
Friends 1, 4and 5 like this.
I haaaaaaavvveeee – oop – come on boys!
Got a bit bored – haha jesus…
An example of the laughs we have at Magz – hahaha – an example of the laughs we have at Miltz.
This is brilliant. – come on… - slottin PQ
Friend 4 added friend 9 to the group
Thoughts? – no danny de vito – comes with age – six out of ten, going on seven
Three months ago
Friend 1 added friend 10 and friend 11 to the group
How long has this been going on for? I mean… I can’t…
Oh bloody hell, look’s who’s entered the fray…
Oh Jesus. Here we go
Are you ready? ...do you know? ...I feel it tooo.
How long has this been going on for? I mean… I can’t… - Friend 1 likes this – double trouble.
Sophie Bumbles… If there’s one thing I do like it’s her name yeah because Sophie’s name is a…
Good name yeahh. – sure
Taking parrage to infinitely new levels…
Two months ago
Friend 2 added Friend 12 to the group
I think there’s been a rape up there
Procrastination to the maximo. – guilty as fucking charged come on!
Future winners – ouch
Mmmmm’gog – top.
Quite literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen
Tobias Damarion Murphy:
Back on line (just about) after some dickhead decided to add loads of random people,
Who subsequently reported me as spam, and nearly got be blocked.
Moral of the story: NEVER leave your account on in the insanity studio!!
Do it yourself I’ve gotta save some Africans!
I'm not as active as you scamps so thought you might want to
This girl's boyfriend who attends our esteemed uni. Enjoy...
No longer availablé babie – fuming – tatterz. Poked him anyway
In bits I got deleted off fwank sad face
I meaaannnn. – is his chin attached to his ribcage you reckon? – I don’t think he has a jawbone it’s just full
Of fatty tissue - better one from that album… - bonjueno. Ain’t seen her before – yeah opened up a new tab
For that one. – she’s fucking dirt – I’d tap that shit hard
I’m not a cheater, I’m a predator
I mean… - lol
Are sales that bad?
Funkin hell. Well played – couldn’t be happier with this – this is fuckin brilliant.
…and they made him a knight of the realm…overrated.
Of course moustaches are still in fashion…in the north
One of the most hideous things I’ve ever seen – filth – retinas are burning
Probably the best BG ever. Even if I do say so myself – can’t beat the one Friend 4 has as his DP
About a month ago
Could have told me you were filming me last night… - you joke… - does he drink? – yeah he drinks
Bird poem – well done. – stop ittt – sure. – where did you stumble on this?
Stop running away!! – ninety-two percent got to be happy
Burr is back in the game – was out last night. Did a backflip
About two weeks ago
Mental chin – big time – works with me; hits me in the eye every time I’m working – James Bottomtooth IV
How does she come out as the better-looking girl? Madness – smutz
Hi guys, don’t know if you were aware, but…I am in a barrrnnndddd. – look at that fucking pose
Take James Bond and put him in a bahnd and you got Cuntidou. Lad – Friend 6 likes this
Friend 10 you cheeky little sausage
About a week ago
Slot? – you’ve caught me – debauched drunkard
Did I? Just a bit, yeah
Read the comments…mental – cringe – she’s deleted the comment…
Just for bants among friends – here’s a good reply…
Friends 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11 like this.
Myth – this is too much
Whoops, you’ve caught me - aright it’s inconsistent – heard about this last night…thought it would be you
Sellotaped to the door
Chat window opened.
Friend offline. Your messages will be sent to his inbox.
And there is nothing left to do sat here, so