Ten number six

one 

Don't take any slag heaps to people in donkey jackets they are forsaken of the council and an abomination unto the Rotarians: and the second suggestion is nothing like it.

Two 

always condescend towards the abrogated for lo it is forbidden to ride a camel in the park without a helmet or an antemacasar for ultimate protection against hair lotions and Brylcreem.

Three

Punish the evil doer with too much salt in their porridge and giveth the sour milk to their cousins for the sign is pointing to the rice pudding of the future and knoweth that there will be vegetables in the balm of gilead no matter how rude thou goest forth unto the scorpions which thou squashetheth thou cream faced squashethetherer. 

Four 

You know, the mirror is the place where fruit goes leaden; that sludgy relapse of monochrome peach is literally laced with mercury flakes - don't eat it - you'll break your teeth on the empty juice and your stomach will retract right up the back of your nose. This is a fact; attention me please Wunderkins. Uncle Marvy knows. 

Five 

Invoke the consternated menoclause, you know it makes sense. Operate under cover of the "known but not wanted at the moment" level. Then you will get the tide to obey you. 

Six 

Indiginate the consterpaters with malevolent plasticity. This is key. 

Seven 

And what of your body? Mergers and acquisitions of our bionic soup occur which countermand intuition and conclude in exponential fulfillment of the all imminent will. Resistance is futile. Chihuahuas are for life; statements are for Christmas. 

Eight

All we are is chemicals; violence is our father; evolution is molding us, everything is relative. You are a germ with shoes on. Enjoy your sentimentality and be kind to each other. Do what you're told. Shut up. This is a joke. 

Nine

Rock n roll is not music. Live with this fact. Noise is willpower amplified. Second hand bike accident leg Greenie. Beethoven is Beethoven. What about us? 

Ten

The quarry is wide and the fissure rippled with dynamite cracks and fossilized critics. One day my son, all this will be toast. Only the glimmering bones of a triumph T120 remains, breaking into a gentle smoky dissolve at the bottom of the flood. I am toking ten number six, in the holy, annihilated sanctity of my secret, sacred, fatal childhood. 

16/08/17

pic: Freddie Cooke