mouthwash constantinople exercise led us up the ante whereupon citroen-loving man-faced mum-boys retracted their stamens and washed over the petulant lip of cornwillis mcdatchet as the last electric hand-cart trundled over the cattle-grid of black horses and my earphones erupted. a slow start to a slow end where the newly beshmirched land rover passenger bounced over the birthday controls and we're all echoing the striped shirts of c and a with videos from the 80s and a large tearful of guilt. you'll find the middle at the end unless you drag out the life spoons and rattle out a cockerney knee-bender and erstwhile extras gambol into an hdr sunset as the last vestiges of sad buckets are dropped from the malthouse with a sickening crash.

in a moment there will be no big finish. you can't even breath out there. best to just pop it back under the stairs.

enigmatic ranges open windows onto the specific suits pulling into the pub while incompatible mocking interrupts find a fiver up a pig. add a new rhubarb filter to the data author so we can compare all those apples with americans. you'll limit yourself with a four-wheeled couch but hope against hope that the smart police arrest themselves and throw the keys into a 70s haymarket water feature as the terminally challenged eradicate spoons with plum fingers. all chime in now. we all win if they put the airfix shermans up the ante.carry on. oh, actually, I've got a fight to catch.

look for the sponge. its covered in worms. but don't squeeze it its already at throb pressure.

junction box calamity wearing steve jones tattoo helmet slips a pink feather after the love has gone to the butchers gaff and trod upon the tiny hooves of petal munching concubines with fecund handbags full of petulance. its a menace that simply wipes the trouser of candlewax with the nib as the enormous interruption from gas mountain threatens to engulf the tripods and send mickey rourke backward through the hedge they found him in. good lord mister mccaffrey there's bound to be a malaise. better got the shotgun and don't spare the dwellers at the leaky trough - they deserve it more than most where are they when the ransom is paid?

up the city no doubt

googling friends pets names as the lions eat the scabs from the biffa bins outside the pub its clear that the white van of mandibles is full of horse clippings trit-trotting to the odeon. welcome then to the circuitous man-cough of black-jacketed mobility transport short-cuts whence the drains in st benedicts tripped a codger by cash converters and the pole from number 35 became lodged in our bush as the bearded clergy of hot air strode thus as spake of them estate dwellers that they know do the damage.

of a citroen c5 trod like moss where the cleanest floor unguarded fell victim to pram wheels of the city and we threw the arms of discarded barbies at mental dartboards. if you carry that all the way to the end you'll have one arm longer than the other and one the those two bag slips from my shoulder into the blackness so taking the very essence of this life into the after and we're left with cameras and money which you can't use. maybe cross-posted to the help channel waterlogged rubber hutch did the scratchy pen on the list in your head.

what's on in there this is new can you tell oh no it isn't I haven't got it yet I wonder what you're doing round here is it really that cold that would keep my brain in order chilled to the point of necessity since the words were scrambled and scraped onto the back of a twingo. not long metro southwards probably all your time there poking manifestos at the queen where characterisations of yourself poke messages through the venitians and prod the 24 hour cattle with a region stick thas like the way you say ut but thas sposed to be.

nevertheless pulling up the kerb volvo-like catching bare legs of tweens in the colourmatched bumpers of newmarket road but its not better just butter as I'm reliving pool memories and pushing my glasses up your nose it a reminder that some of us are grandparents and you've not even colloquialised the radio times in the matchmaker passages from the canterbury episodes. there one right outside now where you were not then but further back but now its just a flooded paper bank spilling supplement over the waitrose car park of december. it can't decide what to do.

lap club membership folly engages a fish-sized manhole unto which to us a child-headed behemoth is born like the aristocats of penge slicing lemons for the twelfth of never. look up look down look all around crashing bore dementia plunges the otherwise placid liberal clap magnet over the lip of the south where twin-headed nose flautists are gathering scrub for winter as the romily peasants off the northern estates pick bones for their young and rummage forever at the key chain of the apolcalypse, hanging, bunched from the belt hook of the reclining satan.

were it not for the twice rung bells of debenhams the raft would be cut free and into the whirlpool of scotch corner wouldst cop killer descend, cranking barrels over the edge of the world and spouting nonces breath over the eyelids of queer. that's where it'll end, but without the pompiers or the garibaldi mountains, which are scattered blithely unto the grid. like what it is usually though.

I shut the blind in order to pull that one off but there's still grout in me fingernails and I won't be rummaging in your handbag up the workshop before the entrails are gathered and plopped into the mixer. april toasts a marshmallow roundabout and everything changes like weird soup you didn't like it what with the overlap let's be amicable evening news please but it was good yeah let me know what those waxworks are like tendering eggplants for cheese and wine only when you finally get it up you need to scratch off the rust it'll be like your birthday and christmas all in one go I can tell you just are you alright.

oi. that's my space.

not legible leathery shower head as a partwork on royalty engulfs a town full of embroidery elfs taking backhanders for cricket matches where the river runs right through the surf shop and a ford anglia trundles its waste to the sea. look in the gutter where the fag butts gather like lopped fingers of saxon women chewing the special brew of norsemen and clattering trolleys into the chip shop windows like there's a pukka pie fight at a tractor sale. there they all were gathered hunched over a plough in the rain thinking 10 bob were a much for scaffold poles parked all along there they were thats a pickup mashup if I ever saw one wer'e comfy at rest in the pickled farm shop of swineshead and skipping though marvin gaye like copydex on a bakelite tea tray.

by the time the fire had gone out I was asleep and there was just toasted mangoes in costessey.

focus on legacy map trashing its 2010 with terminal generics and our splash is all huge whereby you'll ramp a loganberry up the phalanx of a watery peasant canal. just don't touch the soft fruit it a taxonomical hierarchy with nodes likes melon gather by nuts in the springtime. you organise the map and I'll blart out my crayons. its time to recommend where we might want to put that. BIG TOP!

volvo mountains slide up the gravel and a silver crash helmet kicks lorraine kelly into the thames. turn around and you've forgotten that your brother has an unbelievable truth but he's wearing the ghost of experience as a rollneck and however beautiful your beloved playstation pirates there's a whiff of corona and a patch of creme caramel on the bottom of your sketchers.

she'll be expunged like broom slippers.

canape accident in trot farmer's guild as plump pheasant saturates a cabbage at chris evans' gaff. would that it were the end of the trial then there would be a mighty rejoice and recalcitrant duffer digging up gold for a bar on the fire whoop there goes a bonus and welcome to the sound of fingernails scraping ginger cake of greaseproof paper as the worktop goes on the fire.

in a related incident wet rodents climb up a ladder and suddenly everything's alright forever.

usefulness zero at millennium plain with bin bags of the apocalypse eddying under the arches and your self's half brother with trousers for shoes kicks a tortoise under the wheels of the tourist train. cleft palette phone charger in ribald electric shock innocence supplants andrew clegg for the leader of the liberal democrat cake decorators. which customer are you? you're the one dropping sugar puffs down the drain. your beloved slippers are become ghost and march drifts aimlessly over a forgotten yeti playing scrabble with a plum.

don't look at the detail. feel the quality.

got a few bob here but ain't gonna spend it there that's the black and gold of satan lets prod the coast and see what perils the young ones atop the beachy head flowers. remove the keyboard ghost where alt spaces have flown from the nest and the portcullis of march is fidgeting with a pencil in the boiler room of villains. if your bazooka face wasn't upside down I'd correct your beloved slippers and we could twist lemons over our cod-faced progeny. take the rice taste. you don't know what you mean.

if its raining over there you splash the feeble rays of hopetastic unto the recently extracted magnolevity crumbs of crasstination. as the tiny cheese beast fathoms under the rug and entwhistles the chorus of piano man to a gathering fester of tripods we're spying on midget gems building a secret tunnel to the slipper factory for a quickie. suppose you missed march and you had corked the sanguine sandman of the apocalypse with a tuning fork and feeble nissan micra bushels only to find your beautiful starfish had removed your playstation and was putting all your clocks forward to clemsford time. no amount of turkish pizza would fix up you aching brain matter. not even if you gobbled caffeine like a lady beast.

whence back where hair ruled that's magnets to the swine of pearl jam but couched in the black period is where your breton shirt is dripping over the crash barrier of environmental science and I'm in the foyer peering at judie tzuke and wallowing a cat bag up the ante. just when you thought you would buy that again the cam belt of morality mashes the valves of indifference and three days in chokey warrant closed the gate on cheese and onion falsetto menageries and passers-by carried orange bags of rot to the front page of a suzuki swift left outside the savoy.

dig up the beds and lets noddy bus it up yahtzee towers

object lesson in nurture listen to cackling 10-year-olds on the step of substation finger poke don't fly that kite there where are your friends I told you that floor was ragged. pentecostal murmuring dolts swing calamitous axes at man-bag baldies where the golden triangle pendulum swung cloven hoof after the barrel roll of a peugeot 207 catches my hem and the complexities of the somerfield universe dribble wantonly down a funnel of custard.

grab-bag of satan! I've spent all my money on a donkey! why didn't you say something?

seraphs stole the volvo from dave beasant and a dirigible buffoon just lamented a carvery menu onto a black horse. look, there, its running amok in the ice cream. you won't know it but in 35 minutes it'll be the last time you ferment an orange under the back seat of germany and whence a bonus splashed your damned worksurface there will n'er a sovereign be. trusting that the antelope has remembered the sandwiches might be a calamity too far. I'm waving as the road map of east anglia crumbles into the sea and a farmer with an eye pokes the dead bird of friday with a sticky.

what have you done if you tuck it just behind there it won't dribble into your jacket hey you said it was unseasonal whatever was that you found it overflowing from a biffa and screeching incontinent from animal hospital whereupon there were fruit salads and bombay mix antelopes. that nicely ravages around your skull but look hobbling in the phonebox goes one-armed dave lapping himself up because he's worth it can you hear what I hear he's got professional lastnames crashing around his pedestal clamped heels and a suzuki swift scratching effigies into the arm of the cambridge grafton centre.

not respectable more screwdrivers in the cooker plug of absolution after sunday church bag snatch hell

what you choose as a double life hangs upon the very fingernails of the befallen wastrels that pad across the gantry as the peasants drop their wedges and gaggle under the bridges as you are ravaged unto a lemon. you can;t make you mind up as to the blackness of yourself as you mutter metaphors into a mug and prolapse onto hotel sheets when all you want is the outline in the moon and somebody to tell you that they love you but can you stay still. there's nothing like a salutation, just references and rankings. you're on two of my projects and up popped another.

Technorati Profile. but it doesn't work.

saturday teatime trimmed sandwich videostar clunking first in the street you don't know what a viscount is didn't she do well. cleft hooven sallow magnetic box stuck upward in corners get together the sun is always out but you'll never be able to learn around here what happened to knees you can;t cross there no I'll come to you. 5 minutes of pretending over the fence screaming from the woods screwdriver witch madness never saw him again avoided the flying chairs disturbed like control. kids came round we got a piano stay there.

like that man in sunglasses hopping two-footed into the skip of tomorrow throwing vine tomatoes at pedants and vomiting sacrilege from the belly of a gravel pit. if you miss one you miss them all so make a special effort whereupon you left it too late before on a promise of yourself this is the departure gate for your very enlightened soul as if you would wear that jumper and get away with it. just one call and you've set it up. get out, get that hoover attachment and steal the lives of the young with a withering glimpse and a self-deprecating rush downstairs. nearly missed it, but it never came. tomorrow is the beginning of another sponge.

it depends how you say it sat there look every day what's with the van and you have all day to clean that out in an hour there'll be minors throwing shapes at a wall of gibbons while a cosy coiterie of classics jib over the lip of ann summers get that plastic fork out of my handbag you love film. if you were any slower they'd be mashing the cat food of mastodons into the dinner bowls of martyrs and daring you to poke your fingers into the baggage carousel. let them off the lead. then you can kick it over the threshold, which, incidentally, is 50.

its way past your bedtime

if no file a request then once you're at 11 kill 7 and update it live not needed 9 10 or eleven file the edges off calamity represent their own. this is what you do all day but take a breath. I'm listening but I'm not hearing the eyes all glazed munching manically at the altar of ginsters over there they used to do it well but it seems they're a shower. I read those reviews. but when was that oh ha ha ha that's funny to you but do you know what time it is I've only just got back ping ping ping

only 10 minutes offline but well so in the sense that I got nowhere but did it quite fast you'll find a wet sausage under the mat but it won't get you into the steam packet

I said I wouldn't so its right there on that thing you see I'm not coming even if I don't go to the other one. what's the point in flouting your canal when there's barely a monkey-faced infant to collect the worms. from the bottom of a watery crash landing you'll dribble out the tat you so anonymously squeezed out before but I won't be listening because there the emos outside the forum. bit of an overflow to be honest.

in a rush to cram the faulty eggs back up the aisle you mashed a sausage into the wheels and heaved up a fragment of pole. better were it that you were of it which is now deprecated and languishing in a deer pit. there's only so much pressure so take that one off and let's just ignore the other one, there, free swim.

plugged into the bell circuit is where the cupboard light can be found I hate to tell you that's live and that's live and that's live yes I'll come out on thursday but its also sunday so it'll only be me scraping knuckles over the speed bump of pavement cyclists where the burning effigies of town planners are hung like baskets over the bystanders of filby.

I wrote once but never to be published you see anyone can but where's my theremin I've got something in my head that should never come out meandering over snowdon with a false leg. better keep the gutter clear of merz. whos this. just write another cheque out fobbing off virgin suicides like dairyland ice cream hands in your pocket its not cold just dead. driving a saxo into ladybower them were the days I'm asleep where are we thanks see you next week that's not snow it's sleet you know the difference dessicated coconut plagarism episode not ready until tomorrow plastic cabbage transplant.

that was there last time it was never even started you got hung up on entropy and now everything is dribbling into the sink. barely speaking you've thrust a melon at it distraction he's been there all day is it inappropriate to sleep there daily mirror first bus last bus we cross over there yes you don't need to know who I am but I'm going to stick a pencil in his dirigible see how that takes biscuits

its not addictive if you only do it twice so lets start the new year with a hoover attachment and a spell in prison. theres a ripe peasant selling england by the pound and all you can do is recline. if there's ever a need for celery and german helmets then off with you to theatre street where the one before the one before is hiding in the wardrobe lest I see that the older they come the harder they fall. she doesn't want to work like that do she thats all wrong. get out of the bedsit, your hat's upside down and its 1986. happy new year.

only contradicting the obvious freedom therein there's the fatal flaw whereby you can't be left alone lest you be left alone its only a few but every time its the same few again until today you poke at a plastic box like its full of tigers with gemma hayes flicks hoping that you'll see this one through without near death. just death. that dream last night where you're left in the house and you run to the top of the stairs but nothing comes out except a couple of oranges but you're already onto the third one and disappearing into the armchair until you're nothing but the shadow from armchair thriller that used to freak me out not because it was freaky which it was but I couldn't work out how they did it all perspective you see see the punch but just don't feel it where are all you people going.

make a commitment. lose it all by april. don't leave yourself alone with small objects. is there football on today? bull bars

inevitably you've run out of time and haven't done anything you thought you might and now its all back to normal except that by the end of winter it'll be over but the kitchen probably won't filling the cracks how was sydney all because of you. busy today. doing nothing. jabbing a pencil in the lip of your handbag and scribbling reversible citroens on the back of a leather fish tank. bling.

queuing up ofr christmas look I see you poking your wing mirror with a little stick oi turn around that's my pavement you're taxiing over come in and come down there's 17 left but you'll never go there how about that one antique shops and cinemas and poundstretcher what do you mean you can't be bothered its only a bit of rain radio norwich radio norwich ferryboat antics and then its into the river with the wind in your sails but careful we're closed until we pump out your bilge. that one's even got a roof rack but not really its a set of ladders I think I might know you hang on no don't drive off anyway you'll never get there and it'll be the same tomorrow its december now this is how it is forever you can't turn around there ha ha some people. I like the way he sits under the tailgate and drinks his tea. that's rather old fashioned. like me.

no good if you've got a nice flash one you'll not put it down so beg steal or borrow the cart from catton and bake a mantra from platitudes and sticky buns hope your enlightened self doesn't melt under the blowers of chapelfield. have another polo. get some ginsters. I'm only doing this because I haven't.

but have you seen it look its all the way back there are they at home today it just seems to be getting longer and longer no really do you think that's it its only november I suppose it must be how depressing isn't it ugh can you imagine. shovelled into a leisure pit and mauling at grot get in get in there thrust that at me at you're missing the bus to catton they still come up here with their fat morbid faces gurning at the hardware and dribbling on the window yeah he got one hint he so can I hev one can I.

the hunchback is gripping his fags like its the end of the world and the tiles from italy are parked on a layby outside chelmsford. another day done. shuffling around like a honey monster growling back at the dog and sneaking out the back for a quick draw. if you pick off the bits you might get dave to skim it and then we can start from the middle but I don't really like the look of that but he might do it in 5 minutes I mean he does that kid of thing every day it would take me 3 days I can do that though so let me do this and when you've got that sorted out I can start on the other.

they're coming back already. they all need a wii.