Wet work

So lets begin where a man woud begin. With the start of a day. With a woman leaving a room. Not with a man with a regret, but with a woman and an exit. Ignore the schedule, lament the time-press, honour the spirit…

It starts with some lungs… It starts with an intent…

It ends with a headache…

Oh Toe. Oh mighty Toe. Oh man of many sofa’s. Oh maker of moods. Oh creator of peace. Taiwan lays beyond your floor. Oh happy hour… Oh may thy hour repeat itself manyfold. You art of the good stock. God has spread the seed wide. Oh brother art thou to find thyself in London, stick to the bosom of Mary. Thou Knowest the number to call. Klondike 53226. Mr plow may answer… Mr Hill will be at the wheel of the get-up. Who could replace the xia-men dryer experience? My life coach is in thought…

And it ends with the scent of a woman… With the knowledge that a man-who-can will shape the future… In a place where we can smash things…

She was happy in principle. The reality was the loss of Erhu and the Roach… Where did they ferry forwards to? When did thechief go? Was Tash really there? Can a traveller own a cue? Maybe Sunny would have tamed the local contingent, what was that word…?
My cash machine made no noise, to herald the end of the debate. A debate formed in song. I’m sure Edgars’ nostrils had a great time.
She said she had 10 minutes. But we were captivated for hours.
I awoke in Kweishan, to the sound of a fading high heel… so Edgar Allen was right… They are all quitters in the end. Except for the wet workers… Except for the few… the merry few… Those with toes, those who can, those who can shrug off a turtle neck sweater and still come out… those who may shill for the ladies of the night…those who can make the night… those who can make the day…those who allow for the misplacement of dvd’s, those with bicycles of vanity, those with the ability to peform Beyonce numbers at 2am, those who watcheth the watchmen.
We wait for those with poor spines, where are the spuds, where are the antipodeans… Where are the men of sand… Where are the question marks?
Hast thou heard the wisdom of Pearl? The cup of butter lay empty, to be partially filled by one who can sing Eternal Flame.
And still one wonders, where is yesterday, surely it cannot be beaten… Where is the girl? Surely her mood is unjustified. For Tom will live the wet work of his creation.

Let the pms begin.
Let the grammar cease.

To the Nurofen… and to those wet workers…

The cup runneth over with regret.

And God knows, stimulus was what was required…

:astonished: :noway: :astonished: :noway:

Uh… I take back what I said in the Sat lunch at Carnies thread. I’m NOT sorry I had to leave early!

[quote=“tash”]:eek: :noway: :astonished: :noway:

Uh… I take back what I said in the Sat lunch at Carnies thread. I’m NOT sorry I had to leave early![/quote]

Why? We were sorry you left us.

[quote=“TomHill”][quote=“tash”]:eek: :noway: :astonished: :noway:

Uh… I take back what I said in the Sat lunch at Carnies thread. I’m NOT sorry I had to leave early![/quote]

Why? We were sorry you left us.[/quote]
But it sounds very scary, whatever it is that went on after I left. It sounds like you woke up from a nightmare or something.

[quote=“tash”][quote=“TomHill”][quote=“tash”]:eek: :noway: :astonished: :noway:

Uh… I take back what I said in the Sat lunch at Carnies thread. I’m NOT sorry I had to leave early![/quote]

Why? We were sorry you left us.[/quote]
But it sounds very scary, whatever it is that went on after I left. It sounds like you woke up from a nightmare or something.[/quote]

Eternal flame is a worrying song.

There aren’t enough songs about cystitis.

Raulo has left the building.
Fuck I hate that Pancakes song, it really sucks hine bobo.
Boy slave?
Hellz yeah.

[quote=“the chief”]Raulo has left the building.
Fuck I hate that Pancakes song, it really sucks hine bobo.
Boy slave?
Hellz yeah.[/quote]

The pancake song was all about the deliverance.
Just like hot knives are all about the jumping around afterwards.

Goodness, were there some sherries being sipped yestreen?

'Appen. There was an elegant soiree, tingshuo…

More like a cornucopaic flood, a veritable tsunami of the blessings of Saint Michael…

Wow! She types like I speak!

Just for you, m’dear.