The Dadaist Detective walks into a parallel universe’s paralegal parable

The Dadaist Detective walks into a parallel universe’s paralegal parable. A Möbius Schadenfreude slides into view – the duck quacks twice. The concealed countryside dines. The interrelation interrogation begins.


Pick up your eyebrows on the cruise. The options reflect managed shelves. How does it compare to soft intervention blows?

The councillor falls into addiction. There is direct evidence.

As revealed, why didn’t the terminator experience enlarge bitter smelling casements’ missing spoons?

Ask the little bull. This important attraction must use scientific methods when the suburban redress exposes the crippled beggar to polemical enuresis.

The monkey’s claws control the temperature?

This phenomenon evokes nostalgic details. Our asking commentary messes with the help.



-The bastard line responds with a stranded warm back.


Stupid diesel means pink money?

Representatives Sharing – shocking tears leads to addiction.

Pick up your eyebrows on the cruise. The monkey’s claws control the temperature. So does a pacifier sing a lengthy cat. This phenomenon evokes nostalgic details?


The captions reflect managed selves. Whatever prolonged gold figures the finest spike.



– The bassist’s tardy sight lines responds with a understated warm Bach.


Stupid diesel means pink money ? How does it compare to soft intervention bowls?

The cruise is forced into blues and eventually (he wrote this in a record!) into sexy oven mitts.

Can a faithful strike on top of the modelled moan?

Underneath every pant runs a sea novel. Every sarcasm peers outside a mouse!

When will this super-abundant discovery invalidate the mirthful whale?

The tennis veins the toe. The connector supposes the culture. The struggle pales.

How does the column gift the repetitive girlfriend?

The outlined scratch speaks a diesel dialogue over a flowing pill. A bye scrum parades near the pragmatic physics fulsome repose.

How will the picture misdirect the dreaded diagonal?

Breed reasons opposite a battle. The marvellous crime reserves the object into the fail-safe fractious category.


When will a retrieval monkey with an idiom blade those sockets ?

A desired smile behaves underneath your damaging age – the dreamed fuse fusses the compositions against the suspected coincidence.

A lean song preoccupies them with the supermodel. “I’m a fixin’ to go to work”,  she sings, “I gotta get this dolly thing – unsweetened packsaddle.” Her nick imposes the cage.


A parabolic parable paralegal’s parallel universe into a paradoxical plagiarism composes The Dadaist Detective’s walk. The scarce warp obtains a coordinate. Twice quacks duck – the view, into each excessive repertoire, slides A Schadenfreude Möbius. The concealed dines countryside. Begins interrogation interrelation curtain branding – beside the expired jargon matures the duplicate immortal, as parsimonious hail plagues the passerby with platitudes and copper coils, like smoke in a cracked mirror.

Asemic maps 31 & 32

The Dreaming City was ever-changing –

streets into lanes, lanes into corners,

corners into curves, curves into shadows.

The City dreamt of roads that were rivers,

Rivers that were tangled paths,

branching out into the Skyline.



The Dreaming City was ever-changing –

The Skyline clinging to street signs,

like ravens circling secret seams of  the horizon –

The horizon a cantering staircase,

bound to the stars,

the stars, the hanging lace gown of the Moon.



The Moon sang languid lullabies, like a gentle rain,

Down on The Dreaming City.



The Dreaming City was ever-changing –

always the same.


monochrome waves

The last Text Message came as Summer slipped into September

  • we remain because u really humiliated us.

The churning dark had crawled the edges of the shoreline, while whispers scuttled across the sand, catching dimming desires between the grains. Looking back, perhaps, it had not been the best day to picnic. The knife to slice the fruit had proven useful though.

Standing there now, catching the motes with his eyes, his vision swirls rapidly over the sand’s wet boundaries towards the aphotic waters.

“They are on the other side of the island. Our swimmers play together there. I see you, poor souls – All crying from the depths – those waves crying.”

He joined in, they were all crying from the bottom of their hearts – a wave of shame struggling to breath.