I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Tuesday, 31 December 2013

01/01/2014 - LOTS OF LITTLE SECONDS


Lots of little seconds that drive by in Italian trucks – they say it’s like something we heard when I could still go back inside the questions, maybe later. Why not take the car on the left? Why not let the foe go and stick to the villain instead? They say you know where you are with him, sat somewhere atop a vendetta bridge with your legs dangling down over the provocative dead. The shop owners want to keep you in hiding but you’re making it hard for them with your American GI speedsters and your maleficent basket wielders. She was a beauty with brown acres but we keep her in mind for all forms of orange caressing, she is the only one who can manipulate the axe in such a way. The bottles they bring would bring a tear to the eye of most stricken girls with their nightsticks and just wanting to pay attention becomes a task of drinking whiskey whilst giving off airs of the sober man with a ribbon in his hair on a dare.

What is wrong? I don’t believe in daughters that carry their own bruises on their own shoulders and let them hobble the beady curtains via pathological invention within the borders of braced permission. Come this Sunday and see the pub signs march out their names in golden grass and green sands. Come out of your hovel and let your car exhaust sputter for the sake of the windshield which doesn’t see so much clouding as it used to. The silver platter has laces and button-up issues that would cause a fugitive to seek out letter owners for their smooth, circular faces. Look up and say thank you or else you will receive the worst cold that a lifetime could preserve. They could break you and probably plan to, either on or across rocky terrain. Your shirt is riding up in the crotch and that’s normal when the girls go off in a tizzy.

Save it for the pick up, save it for the furry fists to implement with matter-of-fact starters. Please don’t hurt Adrian any further than is deemed humanely necessary. I am a depressed switch that tells the children to stop in black showman numbers and wait their turn. Get the violence out of the way and, no matter your height restrictions, the new year is good for you, as good as the breadth of your socks on your worst day.

All this falling about is gregarious and involves elaborate headdresses that I wouldn’t even consider whilst in delicately-toed company. You are exempt from the party because then the ends would justify the means and the wheelchair wouldn’t have to go anywhere anyway. The tunes start up again and we all have settle down for the sake of the old respirator in the back of the dentist’s. This is a wedding band and this is the strand of the year that is waiting to be pulled out. The days want to make love to you and yours.

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