Sentences which make about as much sense as a cat with a Russian accent singing the Marseillaise to the Queen of Denmark on her state visit to the last leper colony in the Wolverhampton IKEA.
Demotic sporting icon ran past the lost clothes emporium in search of past-life experience; he discovered giant spent shells of misunderstanding emblazoned across the skyline of his infallibility. Or fallibility. Take your pick.
Half-time lifestyle decisions: a million pounds spent in Woolworths; unreturnable emptiness festooned across every imaginable square inch of infra dignitatem consciousness for the vapid cameras of a pay-out frenzied celeb magazine for culturally illiterate and mentally incompetent hoi polloi.
Pseudo-reality baked in the shape of a skyscraper-high cake; crumbs of irrelevance swept up in an arc of improbability. All paid for at great expense out of the unintentional largesse of the smoking classes’ loose change; cumulatively impressive, individually meagre, petty and pointless.
Ultimately, nothing makes sense, even under the well-intentioned (or otherwise) microscope of quasi-intellectual explication. Post-modern sophistry: ex nihilo and ab initio. All the way to the bank with nothing to show for it except an athetoid foot with OCD and a sharp eye for the gap between the goalposts. I’d rather read a book, thank you very much.
All that and a black hole the size of a tax loophole; a colander leaking fiscal security all over the gaps between the pavement.
Images bled meaning on a day when the world woke up to a new disease, a new terror, a new newness, a new fissure which wrote the words: This is the point through which everyone will eventually fall.
Nothing works when it’s broken, but not everybody recognizes this. Condense disagreement into a stone half unturned. Nothing good can come of this, but it usually does in the long run. Words mean less when strictly ordered. Can anything illogical ever make sense? And, more to the point, when will all of this end? Coping strategies for out-of-body real estate transactions. What does anything mean, basically?
Intrude on the makeshift crankshaft of terminal triviality. Decide on a course of action. Deceive the willing disbeliever of a monumental fabric of lies. Mendacity conceals deliberately the handheld video camera of vacuity. But never on Tuesdays. No-one would go that far, surely?
Glimpses of meaning as a self-constructed miasma of leftover considerations, destined never to amount to anything more than a disagreeable aftertaste, like flat champagne or the sting left by a smack to the face.
All of this and less.