The lost art of standing still

Tie worn by lengthy cousins strays to the left and invokes the rage of a slimy little man cloaked in a fresh tuxedo sandwich and garnished with loose bowel coverings all drip drip drippy like eye clack custard on a smooth dance floor anorak gently swaying in the summer breeze now raising to a plum apple crumble all sweet crust yummy yummy and moist like Bo Derek's furry hood now showing its true colours to a cinema gang somewhere near greystoke the concrete gibbon legend whose soul was tempted by wings of lemon barley enriched with a golden shower of egg yolk fried like a good one but lacking that sunny side up tempting which really sends ape folk into gravedigger slurry fever on acrobatic findings on sediment trappings on empty vessels on tepid ponds on dance floor again with an entire disco abattoir chorus line teaching the world and the hairy apes the lost art of standing still which will always pose the immortal question as to weather or not Tarzan could really have by any stretch of the imagination fried himself an egg if left in the kitchen alone with just a loin cloth skiddy for company.

The lost art
Of standing still
Leaves us covered
In fine layers of silt
The lost art
Of standing still
Drops a red gun
In front of your feet
The lost art
Of standing still
Throws a cloak
On top of your head
The lost art
Of standing still
Pours a glass
Of wine on your lap


The above cut-up was created using two pieces of prose, both of which date back to 2004.

 By Spartacus Mole