by Paul Sands14 Jul 2014
There is a tap on the window, not the kind that knocks but one that drips, fending off your muttoned jealousy as the parlour nonsense of a miscarried edition. Amid the apoplectic Sunday ink the reaction to your merchandised murder leaves a child wailing in the rafters, screaming probability lines. For the wilted believers the audible rumours do little. The pay is unreal for these working drones and neatly weighted trails, streaking through a marksman's bones, offer such a perilous reform. Sheared of the fiercest reckoning I fear less the depleted uranium than the seventh level of cholesterol. A sharp sighted dog such as this travels unguided with every loss covered in languid presumption knowing such victories are nothing but treasoned winnings provenanced by bloodied soil and poison pissed beaches. Save the grief, wrap it with a bow, as priceless a gift for the breathless, breakfast, apnoea as you could wish to have for choking into your confession bowl.