Man is clearly the kindest human and it is in me, the power of Jesus Christ. A gloopy tribute to a cosmic solace or the makings of a Universal constant. Recognised by nuclear shadows except for the mothers of sons, fathers distracted and concentrating on daughters, little boys fill dungarees, never letting denim slip to the ankles. They wear belts. Notched and corroded, a kind of celibacy for their gifts, it is perhaps the drive for womankind, the spell of chubby pillows, which spills talent like milk to be cried over and absolutely not otherwise.
It would be remiss were it not mentioned the clear obtuseness of prose and indirectness of argument, reasoned and of some quality or lacking both. This is the water in which I wade, for a period at least, until taken by the sound of vowels slack from consonants or the iambic pentameter’s rhythmic jowls. This rote travels from my brain pleasantly, as if from the Planet Mars, and bypasses the heart to flick the fingers into motion and rotate joints at the pleasure of the boss. It can only be for apologies and gratitude’s that you find this tomorrow and next week until boredom overcomes and reason reclaims whatever position it held.
“My summer, God love it, just passed by like the spring and winter before that, one day rolling into the next, week into week, month and so on. No word was spared for any of these days and sometimes, when kept busy for more time than usual, I lose track of time altogether, lose the notion of whatever weekday it is supposed to be. I guess what happens is I wait for the weekend, only realising it is such when my brother doesn't get up at half six in the morning to go to work. Although he is holidaying at the mo' so it is like one long weekend in my head. So apart from the dead bodies piling and what not, it is remarkably similar to any other day in the last 365 about.”