5) Get out of that without moving. Modification. Hiding up in a hall of mirrors etc.
Le Bimbo de Boffin.
And she has a fear of rain falling like molten lead falling like shards of polish from invisible strands of shopping centre going high up to the sky of debt counselling like an inexhaustible deluge from a party political broadcast into a reservoir of uncryable tears which may escape from time to time in single glops squeezed as if from an empty fairy liquid bottle but leaving as much bereavement in their desolate wake as there is in the belly of a welded tap falling like a shooting star into particles of someone's memory as nausea, like a puff of greasy smoke bleaching out a patch of skyline by the chimney stack of an Ipswich Council Crematorium... Yes, she has sporadic fear of that - the rain, the known - remembrance. And anything yellow. Permanence, like body odour or fibreglass splinters in the filters of her JPS and acid which could spring upon you anytime, like the fucking bailiff crunching her lost contact lens with his 9 and a half camels. He works from a country cottage painting gypsy caravans now, the man who made that cigarette logo in the sixties - funny for redemption like that ain't they - made a fortune out of the system hippies? Not like me she's not she isn't. Not like me at all.
Hairdresser.
Drip, drip, drip. Orgasm. Drip. Brahms. The most exciting motoring news for years. Drip. Dance. Drip. Shopping trolley blast of paint the sea.
artwork, phlegm - photo, jon T.
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