Norm requested that I write this post for him and I couldn’t really say no because he wouldn’t hear it. He was already asleep before worded-breath had parted my lips. He wasn’t really asleep, he was merely faking it. Shit, he’s a lazy shit. He does fuck all, sweet. It’s why he’s so quiet; talking is too much exertion he tells me by holding up one of three signs. Piss off and shut up are the other two. He makes me type out all his shit and it is shit. He doesn’t give one though and all I get is the middle sign. Cunt that he is. Fuck, he is. A lazy sack of koala carcasses has more vim than that excuse for a person. Bed sores on his bottom have intertwined with his pyjama bottoms making him shit his pants and the bed. He does it with a zeal that he never exhibits for anything else. He leaves his writing on the curtains. He shits at the window and then with a stick scratches the words in, he leaves me to punctuate. Excuse any errors there. I’ve had to read all his shit and not many can say that. He never reads. His eyelids have grown into his face. To see where he’s shitting he has to look down his nose. He got me to write this one of my own accord and I don’t know why he bothers writing at all it’s just a waste. A waste, pure and simple. Shit, I’ve got heaps of shit to do and this is the normal length of one of these. The punctuation is in place. The numbers are too. And Norm has the shits up, again. Sloth and diligence: opposite
Norm’ll be the first to admit that Norm’s really got a handle on things. Normally Norm wouldn’t say this, but don’t ever question the Norm. Just follow the conventions that are set. You follow? If Norm needs to build a chair from your broken body, I will. Be done with your structure and turn it into a potty. Norm might just keep you alive so you can watch him sit on the new structure. You’ll just be a pair of eyeballs attached to a brain attached to a spine attached to nerves and pipes attached to heart and lungs and liver and kidneys and stomach. You’ll shit yourself to see Norm eat your hands. Norm’ll give himself a clap for you. Keep an eye on the Norm. Be ready to change your unalterable principles with my fluctuations. It was once that eating your neighbours was common practice. Some things never change, like Norm’s undies and socks. Genital mutilation is looked down upon in most parts. It’s what I’m all about. Modesty forbids me to go into it in any great detail, but suffice to say, Norm has one big groin-nose. It’s always running and Norm has to buy shoes in pairs of three. If I have to put my foot down your throat and out your arse, Norm will. You won’t feel a thing because the Norm is a considerate fucker. I’ll get you on the blower without lifting a finger. Tell everyone about me, if they don’t already know. Norm couldn’t care less what else you do. Normally Norm wouldn’t normally bat an eyelid at singing his own praises. Your arse is a trumpet that he blows up. I do say some explosive things. Stick to the Norm. Pride and humility: opposite.
Eating wriggling rodents is not a fitting punishment for being a glutton. Shit, eating your own shit is even a shitty fit for you unfit fat fucks. I’m having a hard time thinking of a time when I didn’t eat shit loads of the worst kind of crap known to humanity. The only reason I’ve lost so much weight is because I became stranded on the couch and had to eat my own arse cheeks. If we ever get stuck in an elevator don’t turn your back on me; not for a second. You’ll find your arsehole has become a chocolate doughnut. I’ll be found basting your face meat in your potbelly. Face meat tastes a bit like buttock, if you’re after some idea. Don’t interrupt me while I’m devouring your family, I’m not into the whole social aspect of the dining experience. I’ll dine out on your knee ligaments if you do; keep you alive in my boudoir and kneecap you with my teeth. I’ll single out your tendons across the whole network; tie you to string and send you out to do my shopping. You’ll buy me tomato sauce which you’ll pour over yourself before eating yourself and then shit yourself out for me to consume yourself in the form of faeces. I’ll then shit you out and write postcards to your loved ones with personalized greetings written in yourself. Then I’ll take a warm bath. Shit, I could eat just about anyone. My appetite knows no bounds; I feel free to eat whatever I see. It’s so much easier dictating than doing the type myself. I think that eating habits are ingrained very early and hard to alter. I found my parents very unpalatable. Gluttony and temperance.
Honey, money makes a funny day sunny, and makes a cunny runny for the dunny. Beautiful women love a man’s pocket to be bursting at the seams. They’ll show a lot of nerve just to get their grubby manual manipulators on your hard earned. I’d step over my own dead body to keep my stash of cash a cache. I’d skin you alive. Dry out your hide and print my face on you before offering to reskin you with my money for your own. You’ll walk the streets tattooed in my face. Killing is a licence to print the stuff. If I thought that I could, I’d tie you down and extricate every one of your teeth, attach them to strings sell them back to you and then pull them again. Your bloody gums will be fitting counterparts to a rubbery suit of my face. You’ll pay for services with your body. I remember selling my dear old granny for spare change for the public pay phone. Saddest day of my life. The buyer sort of twitched his eyes as he hunched over the dear old thing, he said he like the withered and dry ones. I took that as a good sign. He said that I could keep her wheelchair and blanket and colostomy bag and hearing aid and garments and wig but he wanted to keep her apple catchers, something about a souvenir. Must have been a tourist. He did have something of the Japanese about him. He actually stated that he was going to turn all Japanese on her arse. Must have had an International passport. That was the last time that I saw dear old Gran with her head attached to her shoulders. I had to sell her; I wasn’t just going to give her away. Besides, with that phone call, I placed a bet on a horse that placed. Greed and charity: opposite.
My my, my anger is cold. It’s the anger of a butter knife. Blunt and oily all the way so that I can’t get a grip. Blunt on the edge and sharp to the touch, cheesy. The placid plasticity of a block of cheese you’ll find adheres to canines. God, docile like a lamb. Skin like a baby and the maturity. Faced few chellenges in my life. There’s a girl I know of the non-fee persuasion. For a person of her intelligence she can be a bit daft. Don’t be fooled by my reservations, I’m well aware of my own shortcomings. In some comings I’m a fucking daft dwarf. I hate small people. Lazy like an adamant insect on a cold one, I’m a bloody dildo. A solar calculator on a cloudy day can’t function. Centre yourself, squint your ears to hear the mouse peep, peeps. I’m sick of my own worthless wrath. Angry about the whole thing. The heart is taken there by inclination. In reality it’s not really an issue for me. Anything goes in virtuality. I recall seeing someone drop their hat. I get really angry when that happens. If I had a dollar for every person I’d beaten senseless, kept their eyes open and shone a red light in their eyes and then used their ears for pants and stepped inside their heads and then scratched my balls through their eyes and then had an erection out their nose and then shat in their lungs? I’d be really rather well-off. I'll make a puppet out of you. Turn up to your house and have my way with your family. Get in my bad books and you’ll wind up in my cookbooks. I treat the corpses of my enemies like grudges. We all need something to hang onto in this life. Wrath and forgiveness: opposite.
We can't help playing out text over and over in our minds. We are the authors of our minds. We arrange and rearrange familiar parts to make unfamiliar wholes. I dreamt my Karma went up to the heavens; the highest point. A special ceremony was held; I was showered in adulation. Perfection in numerical expression was achieved. All the other perfect prefects of pettiness passed praise personally. Pathetic. Don't kid me and tell me you aren't desperately hanging on to your vaunted status. A goat is up and the Devil is in session. Sitting in satin, Satan satiates selves. Shit, life is a trip. We're all sad sacks worthy of sinking saturation in selfsame sack. We all race in the sack and we're not alone; our opposite is holding us back. Cut it loose and you'll be falling from your rung. Next time you hear yourself say something in the dusty room of your mind wonder where you acquired such facility. It's some sort of facsimile of feeling in form. Don't fool yourself; it's the saddest sack that Satan ever sowed. Plant yourself in some decent soil and give fruit. Far be it from me to sound like a fucked up git but, for fuck's sake fall off your fucking chair and stop farting through your fucking fingers. At least fess up to the fact that you're a fancy-panted panter. I'll pull your pants down and show you the ropes. You'll be strung up and out. A number can't express worth so stop fucking believing it. Why not accept a system based on the circles of hell and discard this lip-service to karma. I'd love to see a few get forked in their fanny, front or back. Can't wait to be perfect too. Hell and Heaven: opposite.
If you’re like me, you have opposable thumbs. That’s the wonderful thing about being human. As far as anyone knows the divine takes on forms that are known to us. What we can’t imagine can exist. We know all there is to of things we can never know. The pattern of human endeavour is beyond our control. Isn’t life grand? It’s fortunate for us that we are blessed with those who can elucidate any issue with their extraordinary erudition. Trouser-tripe tossers take traffic tallies to total truth. Literary merit is not measured by numbers. Baptised with a chemical reaction you might have to be, wooden wankers. The divine is manifest in patterns of human endeavour. If you could see beyond the end of your own nose you might catch a glimpse. That’s one bridge that you have to cross alone. If you do, I’ll give you two thumbs up! “Snotrags in the top pocket.” Cue the stick. That’s all it takes to realise the transience of your intransigence. I used to be stubborn and on that I won’t budge the metric equivalent of an inch. Don’t get me started on my three feet. I’m the metreman! Do you see what happens when a human tries to write of divinity? I’m all too human too! Humanity is wretched like divinity is great. Human and divine: opposite.
The figure head of the new religion (irreligion) is that great WEstErn IDeal - YOU! If you belong to this religion, you invariably think that you are ever so fucking righteous. Your sinister egomania is rife with your own pathetic ambition. Selfish arse gazers take a step back from the gaping chasm of your unholey arses. The shit has nowhere else to go but out your fingertips. I write with my member so I'm not in total control of my flow. Please notify me if the brutal butchering of blowies is offensive. Your belief in yourself is a cardboard cut-out that is blowing in the wind of your gasbagging trout-lips. Belief in forces greater than yourself is the first step towards humility. We are but the vehicles for our spirits. Your work is manifest with a poisonous moonshine. Sit yourself up on your hill, on your stool and roll back down into the sewer that you crawled out of, you loveless-rats! Downright up yourself are you, expect me to lob on your mater’s door wearing nothing but my birthday suit. Return to subjects that you know, for you are not your own subject, you caught jester. Your bells and whistles give you away as you wank in your wallet. I’m not a fan of murder, but in your case I’m willing to make an exception. Your underworld you'll share with worms, you'll pine for box. The calibre of my barrels will have you spewing something other than shit, you dais straddling junior. You’ll be sent to the darkness along with you ignorance. Ignorance and enlightenment: opposite.
Smack a dog on the arse? While he’s humping your leg? You’ll be the first man to give birth from your calf. And after birth? Wipe it off. It’s like dog spittle and spoof. If a cow comes? Out of your knee? Milk it for all its worth before udders do their thing. Breast feeding a cow? Bullshit on your smock, if you’re not careful. Especially if it’s a baby male cow. Otherwise? Cow pats. A patsy for my cow? Take a surgical glove in the cause of cloned humanity? Who killed JFKow? Fidel-ity to Castr(o)(N)ation? Cuban cigar snips? Or a tummy tuck, and Dallas nip(ple)S? Curiosity killed the pussy, or was it an oversized penis fired from the grassy knoll that put a three magical bullet holes in the axe wound and the brown barrel? Telescopic? A penis erecting itself? With a Jacqui-Off in its sights if it misses its mark? O-Na(r)ssis [cistic-fybrosis or Asbestos? As best (os or as) it Gets? Even better still? Take a porno? ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!(ruder)? Ruder than Debbie does Dallas, the death of JFKow? Bloody Hell or bloody opened head wound? Who fucked his brains out in the operating room of a Texas Cavalcade? There’s a man named Armstrong walking on the earth? An OZ-world receiving info early? From a Jack Ruby Red Satellite in an Apocalyptic sky full of fire? Space Odyssey? Earth Oddity? Capricorn One, Two or Three. Sequels? History Repeats Itself? Who next? Howard hopefully. He’s fucked the country over, not just Jeanette. It’s time a dog humped his leg and gave birth to a new Nation. Next time a dog humps your leg. Hope it’s a mongrel. A male dog. Get a mongrel and get yourself up a dog? But be glad and rejoice about both mongrels. She dogs? Bitches. Women and Dogs? No distinction generally. Not opposites. Equals, in the main. Go the doggy. Each and ever time. Treat them mean and keep them keen. Good-O for doggie-style sex, eh Pal. Take a few Meaty-Bites on the inner thigh? And get into the kitty litter? Fuck a dog up the arse? A she dog? Woof, growl, bark and howl (along with her?). A dog’s arse? A woman’s arse? Smack them both. HARD. With your phallic patterbat? But only insert yourself in one. Women’s arses and dog’s arses? Equal yet Opposite. To the discerning bugger.
My dad gave me some advice that my mum contradicted. So I went to my auntie. She contradicted both of them. So I asked my uncle. He said the pack of them were a mob of fuckwits. So I asked my grandmother. She said, ‘I’m dead. Stop expecting me to channel my thoughts to you.’ So I asked the dead fucker in the next grave. He said, ‘Go ask your grandfather.’ So I did. My grandfather? He said, ‘Go ask a grave digger.’ So I did. The grave digger? He said, ‘Don’t believe a fucking thing that dead fucker in the grave told you. The things he’s accused me of since I buried him? You wouldn’t believe.’ I said, ‘Give me faith.’ He said, ‘In me or in my shovel?’ I said, ‘Are you gay?’ He said, ‘How did you guess?’ I said, ‘Well, there’s a shovel handle sticking out of your arse, and you keep smiling and winking at me.’ He said, ‘Do you know why that shovel is up my arse tickling the most erogenous spot inside my body?’ I said, ‘No. I’m as straight as a die.’ He said, ‘What’s a die.’ I said, ‘I don’t know. It’s something to do with fitting and turning. It’s just an expression my dad used to use. Why?’ He said, ‘No reason.’ I said, ‘So what’s the deal with the shovel, and please call your shovel a spade?’ He said, ‘That’s my YOU substitute.’ We’re married now. And my name is The Brown Dirt Cowboy. Opinions? Mine? Others? Spades? Shovels? Equals and Opposites.
Little Lay-lay Lucifer lauded left leaning larrikins.
Randy Roger relished regaling rednecks routinely.
Brucey barracked belligerently by being blackcrow.
Little Lay-lay remanded Roger before baying blood.
Randy Roger laughed loosely but Brucey begged.
Brucey believed Lay-lay lacked rightful rogering.
Little Lay-lay leered left, really Roger bleed badly.
Roger realised Lay-lay lost by botching backhanders.
Brucey backdoored Lucifer resting Roger’s rogering.
Roger’s result rancour rankled residual rabble.
Brucey battled belief before bearing belittlement.
Lay-lay lengthily languished lowly, learning little.
Roger remembered running lobs beating battlers.
Brucey barracked lest Lay-lay lacked rank, residue.
Lay-lay laughed berating blacks, banking real rewards.
Roger retreated before big business let loose.
Brucey bested ballboys' Lay-lay love really raunchily.
Lay-lay lacked restraint retiring Roge, Bruce badgered.
Brucey back-bit because bias bends bulletins.
Roger racked rear reality rattlers retreating.
Lay-lay listened latently lashing les little-woman.
Brucey, beyond relishing losers laments, bantered.
Roger realising, let last losses linger; banished.
Lay-lay, lashed by losses, bashed best buddies.
Brucey backed Lay-lay lending likeness rapture.
Roger, randiness returning, bonked lovely beauties.
Lay-lay listless, battled bad-back barbies rising.
Lay-lay, Roger and Brucey: love Lucifer.
Adam was a boy and Cocky was an egg. Jesus was the Snake to some. Eve was a rib and The Tree knew what was to come. The Apple dangled from the Tree, nice and tight. We all took a bite. Killing goats by fire is sacred and separating wheat from chaff is too. Suffering is meaningless, and Glasshouses are home to delicate species. If you live in one don't eat apples! The Garden was not a glasshouse because Apples don’t grow in them. Life hangs by a thread, tenuous. All life. It's Here. It's Gone. Spirit lasts, longevity. I believe our works are the physical manifestations of our spirit. The work is the surface and the spirit is the depths. Please, I'm trying to be serious, the sultry summer sends my skin skyrocketing. Who knows what lies at the bottom. It's dark down there. One day I woke to find myself drifting in my inflated tinny just off land. I play it safe in real life. The Spirit of a Grocer! And grosser. I was all surface and no depth. Then my boat sank. I’m no swimmer and I’m no fighter, I sank. Lunar illumination let the glorious blues linger. Thriving in profundity is an ability, like being socially dysfunctional. Fishlike. A Pointer. It's where I go now, the floor. It makes me distant and cold. It’s Apocalyptic. Dreaming awake. Thinking with eyes and seeing with mind. Hearing with ears. Maybe it's a dirty dunny on days when deriding drongos decides my direction. It’s still my belief. It drives me on. Life without belief is a Tree without fruit, coit without hoop, suit without suit, poop without chute. Dead to the world. I think it’s truth, my belief; I will seek proof, to affirm faith. We are fallible. That’s not a revelation. Paradise and Apocalypse. The Flaw and The Floor. Physical and Spiritual: opposite.
Islam, damn Saddam, is not a fan of the can and the cans and can-can, and can fan the man to hand the hat of his fellow man to him with his head in it. Christianity condemns murder out of hand. Out of hand you’ll find yourself in Iran man, if you get busted with the custard and you didn’t make an exchange for it, trust it. Theft in the West is put to the judicial test; corporate resorts are packed to the pools with fools in jewels, as drug mules cool their tools in cesspools. Heads will roll. Burka clad men with ova gonads and black pads lack the fact of being backed by the biological, physiological impossibility of equality. These goaded ova gonaded men in sacks with slits can expect a bath of oleaginous liquid, for a treat. Naked breasts are in bad taste, and I'm not even going to go into what's below the waist. When you meet their Christian counterparts the oil goes to the social wheel, or to help with a little toil (also called a meal with zeal). These ones bathe in their own blubbery secretes as I go bounds and leaps. Gee, I’ve had it with Jihad. Islam, slammed and Christianity, scammed: parallel.
Grin from chin to chin and sin in thin skin, effetes deletes expletes replete with pith and filth, until the shrill fill the still with ill-will. Claims of aims not maims don’t hold cold gold, nor gold mould. Swiss cheese please, Miss; less holes than your old sold fold. Pretense lends bends to ends, offends. The smarmy army of a barmy marmy can't calm me. Brewery-fury before a jury sent excellent intent to descent, and leant meant vent propellent. It’s mammory on a bull that your utility amounts to. The futility of your humility is gratuity in perpetuity. You're Mammon as a Madam! A scant rant can’t halt the bolt keeping this colt from tumult. Twist a list and fanned land on flame came to lame the same dame. The limp made a simp a gimp, and mope in hope for cope. The hop of the mad and bad had some come undone; come to wonder at their blunder under thunder. A nap to the pap! Hap to the madcap and the friend of upending sending ending bending. Thank the [blank] who dealt the spank; thank the bank, you dank, for hits and misses, or do the dishes. Rank and Bank: wank.
Norm
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