Acausal to the fact of my existence. Criminal tendencies unwound. Attempt at dream manufacture. Bruised knuckles swell swollen two weeks healing proof. A trail of blood and unwashed hands. A trickle. Curious DIs look a little closer.

Unwritten tomes in a man’s mind. The man whose mind does matter. To him it matters most surely. And yet he writes it not. It was a groundswell. Things got going and never stopped. No turning back now.

Glances askance, it was a strange little dance, faces flicked and flitted. Faulty parts were unfitted all the while, not unlike the deadly denture doctor drilling as he smiles. It takes a while.

If you want help they’ll give it. Because they do care, you see. They would really rather that you see, and, whatever your particular malady might be, there is, as sure as sure can be, sure to be a remedy.

Engineering emotional prosthetics. Dropping heavy hints at your toes on time. Bringing you in a little closer. Keeping you still a distance at length.

Your wider family. An unspoken community. An overthought ‘what?!’ Seems, seems, seems the seams have been sewn. And then some.

The stony lanes of Knockbracken. The desolate highways of Montreux. The castaway memories of a lifetime. The crunch. The coarsened heels of a mother-woman. It’s a ditch-dive dirt-scrumpled ankle post. A morose wedging of all things pish. A grippled splish upon a pond of poo. An awful blank stare across the windshield of the ages.

Fuckin’ knockin’ the shite outta some boy. A blunt object across the back of the head. In jest like, in jest. Ingesting gestation festering filibusterer bam boom. Ba doo dop. Wangin’ it out for cash. Splashin’ out on shinguards, that’ll never see the light of day. Necessitating felicity most fine, fiver a bine, for the good stuff yus yus.

Cashbricken staffshorts even-keeled go for broke. Last night’s worry was a close one, and so the fear subsides. Climb back inside, it’s safe, ye waif. Angelic now come the hearings of a bright tone. A little shining one now made known. He’ll have to suffer, that boy. Yus yus, suffer up and down the country till you grow a beggar’s wig.

Ever be up and down the town wandering and when ye stap. Benchpost wasps all over ye till a drooling man leans near. Near-distinguishable are the slabberings spewed forth. You reply in kind and so he smiles and all is well, in the town of towntown. Then ye wander on a bit further and subtle sights ye see and smile yerself a little. Tis nice alright. Then ye wade on home with your wellyboots forgotten but the bounce is pronounced and so you avert the STARE of every passing motorist. Only a couple of weeks now. Best keep the head down. G’night.

-So ye understand like? It’s her da in heaven that’s keepin’ ye in the relationship?
-What do ye mean like?
-Well, see everythime your attention wanes, it would be him that provokes the wee move on her part, ye know a smile or, let’s say, a certain radiance that particular day that makes ye think twice.
-Aye, you’re right there ye know. I think you’re right.

Aye so now that we’re back slabberin’, I guess it’s only right to introduce the fellas. The leds. We’ve got Harry, Paeter, and John. John’s a big fat fucker with six different beards. Paeter’s a quiet chap, talks in a whisper, and Harry, well, the less said about Harry the better. Anyway, the whole three of them’s a packa cunts, but that’s alright, they’re good genuine boys, not atall ashamed or backward about their cuntiness, and not the one a them afraid to stand up and shout ill-informed nonsense at the innocent bystanders that gather to stand and to gander at the three of them doin’ their thing…

Anyway the-day they were wafflin’, awful shite they talked and slobbered, slabbered, slaverin’ over tight young things that they shouldn’t strictly have been looking at, unscrupulous fuckers that they were. Not a one a them was married or tied to be wed or even being seen by a member of the opposite sex. There were many reasons for this being the case, the main one being that they were each, the three of them, admitted rapists. As you can imagine this would cause most any woman to stand as far aback as possible from the little street corner that our humble trio presided over, but in actual fact it was all one big lie. You see, none of these boys had ever raped a soul in their lives, it’s was only that they were possessed of a simple plain-speaking honesty that caused them to remark, upon spying an amply bosomed passer-by, ‘Jaysus, I’d rape the legs a thon.’ So you see, it was rather that they garnered the reputation of being rapists by means of displaying spoken intent alone. So aye, there wasn’t much harm in them to be truthful, they were just a bit mixed up.

And this is only three fellas we’re talkin about here, can ye imagine who else might be out there, carousin’ the streets all dirty and confused? Yes, there’s some dorty bastes about, and many of them ye wouldn’t even hear the worst of their talk until ye let them into your living room. ‘Gwan now Margaret and get yer breasts out, the tea’s wet an all.’ Confused individuals. Or are they? Maybe these mollycoddled dirt codgers know fine rightly what they’re all about. And the dorty line spills out as they salivate and eye up yer missus. Ye know it’s hard to know.

No breedin. No schoolin! Nae fuckin’ manners!