LET'S DANCE, DEVIL
The urge is there to move the Earth, inch by inch, word by word. Make your mind up, paper tiger, Or are you a tiger that's made from paper? "Erm.. that's the same thing, mange. Think before you make a statement!" -- "But I am the greatest statesman! So what's with all the hate?" Oh wait, there ain't none. This rhetoric is unethical but hysterical they say. Metaphysics. I'm here to dance, mange, not manage my anger. Menage a Twat. How do you manage to be that obnoxious yet so in touch with your unconscious conscience, monstrous malformed conjuror. Judge, Judy and Executioner. Magician, illusionist. Deluded, but leave 'em hoodwinked and bamboozled like a prohibition ban on booze, flambé, a hangman, ghastly logic, hasty magic, must be gnostic, these rites of passage are caustic acid... Right? Left-handed people are a cause for concern, right? Make the most of a moment, spit roast a Mormon, chide him with snidey remarks while wearing a smiley face mask then dump his dead body in the ocean. Say it was accidental. Laugh when he gasps and desperately grabs for oxygen. Only to realise that Oxy's gone. You ain't getting that, motherfucker. Limited funds but unlimited fun. Writing is literally a gun of liberty, dummy. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE IDIOT! I can go from being funny to saying something that's not even palatable to the stomach lining of your tummy. Tortured by Tauruses, parables, leave you chained and manacled. Stalactite of Damocles. Hanging over like a nasty odour from a casket open. This ain't Casper the Friendly Ghost, this is some gross entity, floating. As I lay my muck and manure with such self-assurance, leaving the readers needing help and health insurance as they continue to delve into this well, and invest themselves in this personal hell of mine. This is a long haul, this is endurance. This is me dancing with the Devil, dabbling in the occult, begging to not get cut. I'm everything BUT the occult. Silt and soot, foot fetish and butt worship... But there are worse sins, I guess. Could make a heavenly medley out of the seven deadly. I'm not sorry, just sordid and seedy like a swordsman with semen. They're just words. Things could bode worse than you having to sift through this perverse morse code looking for more codes, hidden in coarse works. Nie has got more issues than Julia Michaels. This is the stupidest shit, but I possess a muniment for foolishness and being rude to human beings for humane purposes. Better than being superfluous and virtuous. When I burp on your boobs its a sign of affection. Either that or I'm just a virgin that's nervous and I've spread an infection. I'm sorry if you might be affected, but that could just be a sign that you uptight fuckers have been too overprotected. Unable to handle this unstable Nexus of extra zest at the breakfast table, showing off like I'm flexing my solar plexus, causing this extra stress forcing you to take your chest pills. Train of thought? Or just trained to think? Trademark this insane ink of rain and name it 'Brain Incorporated.' I am the link between the trains. I've tamed linguistics. Maybe even changed linguistics for the betterment of mankind, Subjecting it to this inquisition has redefined what people can read between the lines. UNDERAGE GAMBLING IS ILLEGAL! Its only okay for adults to lose their money. Nothing can be made illegal, everyone in the world is doing everything. Whether small scale or large. The harsh reality of our reality is harsh and callous. Democracy is a fallacy too. I see malice encouraged, a subtle caliphate, O.T.O. phalluses, nibbling bits, Goddesses like hot phalls, shaping the world in their own image, so what now? We build them their palaces, act as their foot stools. Cool them down when they're hot. Eat fruit like its some feetandfood.com. In truth I am a fool, I'm every card in one, from the Major Arcana. Am I awakened? Or just awaiting my Karma? Stay calm, may no harm come to me and my snake charm tactics. Or maybe I'm just tempting fate through subliminal suicidal attempts of separated, disjointed, misguided states of mind and devastating traits of habit. I'm a creature of comfort that's about as useful as a blind guide dog, putting one of its eyes inside of a tripod so it looks like a sky God, before awaiting other mild modifications and odd initiation rites of passage in the face of these termites of fascism. Hermites United flasking casks of whisky before taking flight on the riskiest airlines, and you thought the frisk search was kinky? On the plane stinking because you're drinking booze out of the stinkiest shoes and ladies zip down boots... and you should be grateful for the sole crushed grapes, so humiliating its left you all flush faced. But those lush soles are just so jam fluffy, that they would make any man feel so damn lucky. I'm just putty in your hands that you've rubbed upon your feet. I feel like I'm living in a dream sequence, and when I wake up I'm covered in semen surrounded by females in sequin skin. Hickorus Dickorus Cock! Where are my Icarus Wings, fries and red salt! Time to get wise to these cowboys holding assault rifles and high-powered pistols. I have piss all except my piss hole. It is all I've got against these adversaries - Annie Hall verses. But failing that, any old verses will do. Even nursery rhymes can serve me right in the bleakest fog and knees steeped in the deepest bogs. Film it live on YouTube. 'The comments are disabled for this video.' Yeah? And so is the person who the video is about you insensitive Kuntophiles!! I'm like a Fiat Punto with flat tyres. I feel 'that' tired. I should be on a beach in a deckchair eating peachy bottoms not giving speeches. Or dead at Beachy Head after swallowing bleach. Or was that girl swallowing bleach from my head? Maybe it was seeing the Samaritans sign that made me feel suicidal and all the benches with dead people's names on crests. 'Margaret and Bill loved to visit this place.' Yeah? They sure did. You could always fake your death come back and rip the badge off the bench and sell it on eBay for millions of pounds... of flab. And cause an obesity crisis. Sugar tax for fat fuckers needs axing! Literally so all the sugar leaks out of the burlap so it can get lapped up by Kay Burley. I'm barely able to remain sane in this clime, as the mind is a field of slime trails. Literally mugging the readers with sluggish shit. Busty chicks pushing me into their musky pits. Eurovision I voted for Miss Nissen and then the whole voting system was bullllllshit. Here you go Moldova! Have 500 free points!