Cosmetic labels are linguistic wonders…

And we’re still following on:

What other literary form serves up so much suggested promise while remaining— for legal reasons no doubt, so thoroughly content free?

It’s unfathomable really…

IMG_4691 fix 222Unfathomable perhaps, but it also just happens to be both a trick and a rhetorical question, because everyone knows there’s not a wider selection of swill to be found anywhere in the world, than on wine-menus. But while descriptions of wines at least only pushes the boundaries of creative writing without affecting its taste; with cosmetics— mainly in the hair-care range, there seems to be a desire to push the very boundaries of nature itself— which isn’t nearly so tender to the tongue.

So much so, I feel my dream qualification is finally on the verge of being realised: the field of un-natural science, where I can finally combine my skills to create a superior face-cream that “reduces the appearance of being a raddled old hack.”

A major supermarket chain has in the meantime created its own wonder of nature with its exclusive: Physique hair-care range, which “cleverly uses magnetic-like forces to create the style you want.” Quite how cleverly and magnetic-like, remains to be seen, but I distinctly recall something about attraction and repulsion as long ago as ‘little’ school, and while it would be the perfect means to keep the proximity of boys and girls’ faces to a minimum, the last thing we’d want would be a generation of boys’ heads being thrust together uncontrollably, particularly at such an impressionable age.

Maybe the Volume Collection just employs good old-fashioned electro-static forces— the force that dares not speak its name in applied trichology since being implicated in the dreaded “fly-away hair” scandal of ’87 or more recently— as proposed right here, with the unlicensed testing on old-aged pensioners: an essential read I assure you.

And then there’s the Control Collection for smooth sleekness, as opposed to that ‘other’ type of sleekness that lacks both? Perhaps it was developed for bonces with surface tension issues, we may never know. I on the other hand have more reason to fear:

Gukk: using the strong nuclear force to stay all day

Which doesn’t sound much like a barn-burner to me; rather something you’d evacuate the whole farm for… and then at least give the surrounding villages a heads-up.

At least it’s not as mind-bogglingly stupid as responding to “permanent, light reflecting colour”.  with totally non-light-reflecting hair dye; for a completely natural look..

Natural look?

It would reflect darkness for crying out loud!

Which under some circumstances, I agree might be cool! If it wasn’t so f@#$%*£ stupid…

Besides. I have a follow-up!

The Iron Wall…

581453_10151211969251041_233961945_nNatural Grafitti—


“Graffiti is one of the few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don’t come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make someone smile while they’re having a piss.”

Banksy, Banging Your Head Against a Brick Wall

An ultimately pointless piece & the irony-box…

Overload or mood as metaphor:

It’s not overly difficult to be striken by pink, when the pictures I’m thinking in clash

The recovery starts when colours feel like bullets…

218038_10151214972321041_292642255_nA nice smote pink can do the trick, sometimes it’s something altogether more violent: violent colours for violent moods. Sometimes it’s something unpleasant for a foul one, sometimes delicate or spiritually arresting even— but nothing to get arrested with. Sometimes it’s something from the satin-range with its carefully selected blend of subtle whites with ‘a hint of brain’ or something similar. Anything really, to aid the relief of migraines— or something else… Just nothing that looks too sticky.

It can be a ghastly thought— a lack of style, a collection of both. Anything.

It’s enough to make you scream at times— in lines mostly: straight ones, bendy ones, it doesn’t really matter; lumpy lines too— it certainly makes turning a corner particularly interesting— not the easiest thing in the world to do at the best of times, but if you’re in the habit of frequenting just the one room and treating all other rooms, as little more than extensions to that room and to the utilities you find… well, they’re rooms too. Stuff can be a pest.

But they’re not, because they’re little more than cupboards in the house that is no longer a house— just a giant pantry with fewer doors— bigger mind; and floors little more than a convenient place to put things.

A pirouette on the other hand is still a pirouette, just no longer a turn. It is a dance, or— since we’re on the lines, it’s the turn of economy: an extension of something that’s part of a dance— when accompanied of course; because a twirl without music is little more than a spasm, and I for one, prefer to do my spasming in the company of friends, which cancels out any semblance of being a part altogether.

And then there are the lists: comma, comma, comma…

It’s easier to lampoon what grates you, in the same way it helps to imagine idiots are made from cheese— it’s fun. It’s one of those versatile food stuffs that not only tastes great but is a self-contained irony-box— and in itself, a rose-tinted; white-washed review of bad taste only far, far sweeter— you can obliterate it in so many ways.

Either way it’s ultimately pointless;

Except the bit about the cheese anyway.

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