Hence, a complete restoration of this text isn't recommended
Sunday 11 October 2009
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My obsolete levers are linked to ferrous devices in the mornings. Sorry about the prolixity of hate-plurals. A dissolving picture of an enclosure (?) haunts with its thin soundtrack. Fashionistas walked all over us this morning, hitting us with their tubes of pink light. A symbol of love is that it grows hairier as the deepest corner is reached, you lean sideways to evade the laughter-bucket. A continuous future can only be assured by the licentious organism that sold us. That frat -pack! Years climbing up and down fluorescent funnels of tunnels and the present tense is breaking up, as genders are added up and the black snow fills the bottom of my mouth.
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2 comments:
Yeah, 9:21am here - I can't think of anything to say either. Default Sunday nothings. Cold stink of an emptyplastic Pothead Noodle container on my desk. Heavy purple midnight thunder beating on the window behind me has passed. It will call again later. [Deadpan] "Of that much I'm sure."
[memory] Old Bull Lee creaks up from his chair, brewing another slow cuppa while living alone - to type and dream in an anonymous, dusty corner of W1. Bird flight and yesterday's newspapers.
I also evade the laughter bucket; the biopsychic excess of my Uncharted Dragon interior wor(/l)ds slop violently over the sides - soon others around me (shrill tones of the willingly self-domesticated) complain that this chemical ocean of raw synaptic Vision no longer reminds them of the Cognitive Kansas they've become so familiar with.
-It takes every hard-won ounce of our fading daily strengths to ensure their golfing buddies are thoroughly offended, Brother Paul.
Still hardtwisting the aesthetic spine to that forever darkening freejazz groove,
Henry Swanson
Thanks for your input, Henry. Sorry I've taken so long to respond. The Blog has been dormant for weeks. Give us your link...
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