Well ain’t it a cryin’ shame. The holy Moses are here all to burn and frazzle and celebrate and whatnot, orthodox pedigree being the operative term at all times. Likewise the nuns are a-grievin’, payin’ pity to all the philanderers who were freed. They’ve got a nonce in the building: he’s bald, and a sequined celebrant blazing the boilin’ pot for scumbags and lettuce scum and scumbum’s trottin’ round the kitchen out there somewhere in the back. Always altogether gleaming shrouding the tooth back where hounds roar in the night-time, grime blasitn’ through bunkers beneath. Wurlitzer won’t have a feck for the fricken. And not a pitty-pat for the peg-nosed. Not a flying flip for the unforgiven, so-so says their name so. And so it is and so it was written and so she was smitten and halve her head in three. A lady I would like to be. Bring to me the bunting it’s time for the twelfth.
Well as you can tell from the above statement I am quite out of my mind, but what’s new? I’d like to talk to you all (yes, all five of you) about a certain thing that goes on, that goes without saying, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Did you ever argue with somebody? And you say “Well, I don’t like that you did that.” And then they say “Well I don’t like that you did this, that and the other?” You see what’s going on here? They’ve stacked ammunition. This person who has been disguising themselves as your friend for so long has been secretly compiling a list of complaints and judgements, any little thing you’ve done wrong, and they’ve got them all sitting ready should the occasion ever arise. The bastards were born to argue. At the age of four or five my brother and uncle would tease me maliciously, mercilessly, saying “Elijah’s got fifty girlfriends!” and I would cry like the baby I was and still am. Emotionally stunted. Some people get a dig out of that sort of thing, I get stunted, and haunted. Wednesday’s child is full of woe and woe bes me so woeful. Of course the skin thickens over time as a matter of coarse. Elephant hide. The coarse I curse, and spit at their feet.
I found out later in life that a suitable remedy to such insults was to launch the hard part of your head into the offender’s face, followed by a barrage of well-placed punches, alcohol imbibed a necessity. This however leads to the coming around of what went first, meaning a sound kicking lies somewhere not far off in your future, tread with care! It’s an awful quarry to be in, and I know I’m not making much sense here, but I’ve got to work with what I’ve got, which at the present time is heightened cognition thrown off balance by a savvy sense of the ridiculous and abandonment of all rationale.
Well words are weird and so you throw them together until they seem to make sense, doing it for the fun of it, and love and actual wanting and not the despising of discipline sitting down to grind out a round number just to suit your self-same savage serenity. But the question remains, will you find something here to relate to? Will any word will it’s way into your consciousness and dig out a divot? A little-known truth that was whiling the time away in wait. See it’s all open-ended, and that’s what’s so good about stuff. I hear a song and I don’t have to worry about what exactly the writer meant, that’s his business. I just want to grab a hold of one or two lines that appeal to me and hang on, derive my own meaning. What does it mean to me? Rigorous examination however may lead to revelation, revolution, resolution. Take it how you like it. Up the jacksy.