A rough tough cream puff estate agent responds off the cuff with knee jerky jiffy juff.
This reply to all hip hoppy, copy carbon. To recipients. The scotch jigsaw of circo psycho twiddle twaddle bibble babble inspires and horrifys (sic) me in a half misted over glasses way. Spattering of diatribes with some trans gender musing in the frame of wonderful bodies making spectacles for themselves.
A machine gun mailing list of raggedy draggled Egyptians, oh and-and a million dollar non-economic migrants who have never seen a retail park or real majik.
Who says circus in the sun is more bright, more vivid than seven semi-conscious muscle bound dwarves on fire on five performing ponies on horseback at the sandman clown who’s twin spins, entraced in the dim light in a dance-like stance, at the eclipse of the moon takes fright wig on a night flight.
In the circus of the street looking milk white, uptight it's all alright now as class war breaks out in the green and unpleasant shadow of Sargent 'Big' Ben on gentrified clap trap of them common people.
Poor people huddle. Puddle around. Food. Banks, swap stories for mouthfuls. Sugared soul soup.
Forty one government trainee acrobats redolent in charity shop chic protest the end of the world again and the breathe a sigh of collective relief as their zero-hour approaches.
Mirrored aid in mentored multi-channel live events echo around the empty arena. Ticketless intern troublemakers trash the dismal land they have invented and squeeze a last drop of stardust into bleary beer breathed hood-eyed waiters who act and wait by for the ersatz coffee in Barista style fare trade tea cups from Portsmouth.
Fandango fanny in flames cultured voices modulate and masticate tailor-made scripts for reality biting satyrs. Pork pie pigs scrabble in concrete fields for feed pallets and squeal delightedly and the butcher’s truck backs up to the garden gate and blows up on tenderloins with heirloom brickbats the jokers batter the onlookers like dead horses.
Lapping it up, they dance to keep warm and try and remember better times. Hypnotised chickens trekking their faux Sumatran jungle homewards taking ringside settee fireside goatees and mothballed oneseies twosie threesies onto the teeter board of older age.
Settle down now everybody, now enjoy the rapacious prancing calliotropic tunes and the almost flyby death defying, oh dear, missed again, ploughing into stubble and Sunday sandwiches at wits end wizened wisteria.
Mike will let you in.