Tabloid Minus Page Turning Equals Tv

========== O Monday night. Moving magazines. Aimed dead at killing an evening, my fingers target ========= These same old four buttons; < < > >. 1, 2, 3, 4. Five’s a pipedream. Gaudy, small-minded and trapped in affected Americana. Just like whatever the hell this is. Too much smiling. ====== > Diseases. An old man’s mouldy cock. Right there, mid-screen. Mid-bite, I choke, as they mumble about vulvas ======== > A dog rolls in a mound of white paper. Whimpering at the softest **** tickle. Like his little tongue? He’s running! With T.P! The Hilarity! Ho ho ======= > A mother and daughter swing together on a sunny day. One is singing like a xylophone. They bond across a yoghurt. Processed fried chicken cracked open with a wry smile and a twinkle in those white, white eyes ======= < Psoriasis and bubbling skin, oozing puss and cracked smiles. Bloody stumps. Dripping bandages. Wild premonitions of vomiting onto; ======= > A familiar street, full of families too awful to hate. Bald men stomp, cheeky guy’s grin, heart throb’s pulsate. Young filly’s flounce, old hag’s huddle and all moan mournfully. Other’s pass in between, and outside of, the broad spectrum of emotional alliteration and post-modern punctuation without so much as a smile ==== > Kevin Bacon and Kyr =========== > Michael Dougl ========= > Widescreen TV’s at my fifteen inch window ========= > A man with a silly haircut, waving a knife at a pepper with intent ========= < Crying mothers, acting emotional. So you don’t have to? =============== > Women in windows waving enhanced monstrosities at the wanking and eager. Tittilitation for the text buck, a half-filled screen of despair. Tribute to the madness that grips young men through the night ========= > Still, writing this keeps me sane. More sadness ======= > More sales ============ > ============= > ============ < That’s a thought these images do not create ==== > That’s a thought. These images do not create ======== O