The Eleven Reasons for My Imprisonment

1. As a child, I would take off my shirt regularly and ply a trade. A nursery school numbskull would not help make biscuits. And what could not be eked was taken to the bank. Thus the bank became a place of overextended desire. Do you remember Mr Freeze's icicle in the 'ass'? Food producers have never been more cynical. Bonne anniversaire indeed. But I tried really hard, I needed to. Do so.

2. The jeers turned into a ballad. We were placed in alphabetical order, and thus our initial contiguity was merely a matter of chance. But using isolated fingers we made the most of a daily peremption with our preemptive dalliances. The tonality of a quadrangle foisted nostalgia and mirror.

3. Mama! You would take turns at fleeting chances and studied and extensive thematic expositions. Berol markers defined the palette of our dreams. We all grew to swap. The variety of sheds was also our major limitation. The sweep and the curlicue parped trad jazz. Microsoft became a client.

4. Next came the hollowed firstfloor ballroom. The waiting was interminable and the glare from the sedentary host family burned intolerably. Their flesh was too soft, and decanting became the overarching metaphor.

5. A head for a hat hardened his heart to the Hebrews. Instead an isolated isosceles invertebrate instigated the irksome irritation. Ja, just junipers jettisoned by jingoist jerks jerk the jargon justly.

6. I became jaded as language ceased to be a natural subject for telepathy. Fed up of selfconscious selfrighteous clipped syntax and teutonic alliteration. Barbarous as celery verse became, rebarbatively aspiritual and antiseptically intellectually protoanalytically uniformitory. Slapped spun hack pens trim beaut plucked puns twixt mono slab bagged duns with punk trod plankton addenda like Menander.

7. Complimentary cortisone and the temptation to theorise theory and discomfit comfort could be called. Seesaw updown lilt forforwards. Prefer to recoil to leap further off lowest diving board in Lowestoft. Bored and senescate in Switzerland, rejuvenate in Pinball. Muderous tilt.

8. So back to my laborious story. A deadhead by the age of thirty-three, I slipped through to old age using multifold substances to vary my typing speed. 900 pages were arranged destructively by my followers. Women came, but I would not yield to their mighty mighty borbor, and sought to die alone. No, not really panface. Come here and sample my shirtless wares.

9. Hamburgers will be Hamburgers for me Hamburgers for tea! Hamburgers you are the ultimate, here is an advert for my future epic poem to Hamburgers! Hamburgers! Hamburgers! Read every Hamburger as if it were your last! Double bacon geniusburger Hamburger! Hamburgers will survive us all! Hamburger holy holy holy Hamburger! Up to my neck in chocolate malted Hamburgers! Chaos Hamburgers in eleven dimensions! Hamburger toolboxes! Hamburger lightbulbs! My wife just gave birth to a little Hamburger after I fucked her with a Hamburger! Foreplay light flicklicking Hamburger alphabets! Rhythm of Hamburger! Daily jamburger Hamburger! New Hamburger in old bottles! I caught this morning morning's Hamburger! Hamburger is the cruellest Hamburger! Of Hamburger and Hamburger I sing! It is a Hamburger universally acknowledged, that a single Hamburger in possession of a good Hamburger, must be in want of a Hamburger! The first Hamburger is the deepest! Hamburger I love you with the utmost modern love poetry, yes I, I Hamburger! Ah, Hamburger! Man is a social Hamburger!

10. In my imagination elegance involves a lack of questioning. Do you have utter repose? How long can you sit without moving your hands? DO NOT TOUCH YOUR FACE FOR A DAY. Flies flying around the sink make for a troubling milk drink. So was he an elegant man? The ripples round his nipples could not be mistaken for banditos using the plan he chose. And so on. The prose he chose to expose was we know not as plain as a window pane, but a pain to explain to brains drained by again and again being trained to complain. Solidly we dry. Before a steam was got up, parper.

11. Finally it's happening to me, there is no hesitation, no cause. I feel like facking soft sift in a marked ford car. Uplifting banshee harmonies are all that are left to cleanse the cleft weft where latterly there were craft and heft. A list of m-words you cannae prenoonce reet. Time taken from 1-12, A, woz not bleeding Afghanistan. But from here to then, a rabbit parsed away. I could go on, but you get the idea. The odour of oh dear! Finally what worries is how u'erly puerile it whole wuz. Or blandishmentally serious and subsidised for the future by a torrent of abreaction. My frank life was funfortunately without selfcontrol alt delete.