"Beneath the land that you walk is an extensive tunnel-system. In these tunnels there are over 1500 different species of ugly people.
We decided, I'm afraid to say, in the 1960s; when things started to change and got shallower perhaps. And so, in the name of good balance, we sent them away in their hordes.
The tunnels are lit and ventilated, have running water and, on the whole, are pretty warm. There is a large volcano that provides most of the heat, but once a tunneller hit an underground magma chamber. We lost 37, brave, ugly lives that day. One was a promising underground musician; Hollywood had rejected him, by virtue of a pronounced forehead. It protruded, like a Neanderthals did, and with the right lighting, too resembled a kind of unicorn horn. Jerry wanted to escape. He'd been practicing his needle-work and thought he could doctor the issue himself.
Heaven forbid for he hath died!"
It's pretty fucking relentless, listening to you two discuss ex-partners. "My ex was so so un-loyal," "but mine was crude, too." Just tell each-other you want to procreate. Or take measures against this deed; still lay in the name of the father, but not the son: Mary weeps at western men. Fornicate with flora and listen to the din.
My hands are throbbing and inside them are insects, which dance and make me fidget.
Stroke your hair and brag of an older woman, for your sex-appeal, even though she can see you already, will go through the roof. Out, up and above the glass ceiling into a world of fantasy - you, kind sir, are just a crustacean and have a confusing symbolism to your face.
Open the curtains and let in the light - don't mind the rain, inside is wet already, just let in the light. The window is closed anyway.
"Oh, fuck," he thinks. "I didn't want to be in a relationship; it's just a game of pretending to care with a sweaty, unwanted cuddle good-night." If you blow the smoke into my jumper, maybe they won't smell it.
It's a bit like using the rupee in Cheltenham, if you think about it a little more. Magic isn't illusion, but just really quick movement of furniture - I had a music box with only nine keys. My t-shirt is currently attached to back, like the slices of cheese you buy to cellophane-wrap: 'cheese singles', I believe.
With that sweet warm nectarine, I am yours. Imagine burying a family member in the garden a like poor little woofer - nothing but bone and memory. I put a stick into the ground and now it is your place to rest forever more.
Also, button down your jeans and play second-fiddle to her broad shouldered lover, with arms as wide as his television-screen. Scream, for more, the ride is free today only! Staggering back, you realise it is similar in structure to a game of chess, or the hand which strokes the clock-face.