Wednesday, June 20, 2007


Picture a tegulari of uneven and fictive development, butted-up, conjoined, in stasis, with a fancy adolescent title and flashy graphics somewhere. Its populous of beer-soaked anecdotalists condemn glass-eyes to irreversible coma. Half-baking is both speciality and modus operandi. Half-arsing is seen as totality. A tall one, the echolalian, runs off at the mouth with see-through self-prose. A taller one, his nodding dog, bays up and down, shagging his Owner's leg. Another, covered in animal hair, sneaks farts out into the pockets of the first whilst smiling. Another, overweight with one eye, sits slightly apart, dribbling into empty glasses, offered one by one as free drinks. This is his contribution. Others contribute via flags - most often of convenience, but always containing self-portraits. The tall one is growing his to scale. He travels in-back - always. He hates anything up-front.

The echolalian pauses for a toilet break.

The rest nail ants to horses.


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