Soon the creatures,journeying through the night-owl hours will be here,they seem to come these days in ever increasing numbers,how ever hard i try to flutter them away to journey else where, the more they pull tighter the pink laces in their hob-nailed boots to dance,in unison the snotty crab dance found in the prism in that wonderful word Mature.
They whisper in my ear...1968...as the fighting claw full of choice snippets surrounding the year are deposited free to roam,to shadow box in my floundering grey matter already full of elephant piss fed to me through various media's.My friends the saccharine turtles joined with pretty va-cunt kimono's have noticed that i struggle to ponder on such snippets without lapsing into the green shaded Chardonnay bottles,to fart,flagellate perhaps masturbate to the old and new dreams just out of reach.
Alas my grey matter friends are no match for such mind suckers,with that realization, i giggle link arms with turtles kimono's and try as i might pull a 1968 white rabbit out of the hat such a trick might startle the creatures and thus i might win the night games played out in the gloom twitchers cardboard closet.