sell your peasant

another travelogue 11
another travelogue 11 by Tim Caynes

stumbling haphazardly from an infant garden it struck 11 and I was 900 better off. it ain’t much of deal really but by the time you’d lobbed an unstable crack missile over the lip of the canal the boys were smokin up the highway and boiling the manifold to throb pressure. we squished past the monkey-faced tractor bashers and got all mumble-eyed over the prospect of a tangible vole badgering when out of clacton an anonymous clog portal assembled and we were laying tarmac over the butcher’s block of an enormous forked table. but just then dave came over with 2 faces of hollow lard and so we declared it pretend breathing day and mashed up the ginsters like there was no tomorrow which there probably wasn’t but we didn’t know that yet.

significantly, dave was hanging inches from a stiff neck and had spent the previous night positioning it over a sticky cod where there used to be just fields. with a huge lunatic fragment, he trampled the brittle chaffs of swansea street and without malice was gibbering at the emotional death climax of a mostly necked rat with luminous cheese ears that blew over at random. in a salacious corner, he simply buffered the thing and ate it with a sweat guru. look away then he said as I made a swimming motion into a bucket but it was rather the wanton mastication that drove me to heave up the continent and splash it over the cat valley. we never really gave it much thought after that. between the A17 and the services there’s a small piece of fudge that will never be eaten, but aside from that we’re just the same.


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