Great toddling toads and barking bandicoots! It's you, decadent nonentities! Last time, we left you in a somnambulistic state. Thus, the temptation was to leave you as you were and a straw ballot here in the borough of Heaven confirmed the view that you're somewhat less repulsive when unconscious. However, tedium and irritation have led me to an awakened state myself, so I've decided to give you a serve to while away the hours.
And what is that serve, I hear you enquire! Why, I reply, it is a dose of prognostication of a vile and bitter sort. It pertains, in this instance, to malodorous May, a fact I divine from the fifth knot in my handkerchief. So, after a fruity fiasco, a legal contretemps with pater and an edgy fandango as performed by a somnambulist in traffic, what do the influences hold? We shall take the dread cup, drink deep and so discover!
You stand amidst the chaos and riot you yourself have caused, sightless and unconscious until, as vamping Venus erupts into addlepate Aries, a firm hand grasps your flaccid arm and leads you to safety. And, my tiny twerps, as that firm hand grips your too too solid flesh, an erotic charge runs the entire length of your body, awakening you from the sleep of the dead in which you were trapped. Eek! Indeed, you have not felt such a thrill as this since the early days of fruity erotica that gave a new meaning and purpose to the mango and the banana.
Ghastly planets cavort in nasty aspect, culminating in a Full Moon in morbid Scorpio. You seize the body is joined to that helping hand, wrestle it to the ground and deliver an orgiastic display that, were a dozen scribes to write for a dozen years, they could not convey the bestial scents and sounds of this concupiscent concatenation. Strong men witness it and weep! Eek! Right-minded women only look away. Gadzooks! However, were one to sell tickets to the great unwashed, great profit could be made with a perverse, pornographic spectacle such as this. Mischievous Mercury cavorts in your solar eighth house and you deliver such a dark and demonic song of hellish ecstasy that the sale of earplugs in the near surrounds would also not go amiss as a commercial venture. It seems the frustration of recent trials and tribulations is released in the form of an orgiastic howling that shatters the windows in a nearby shopping mall and causes cell phone systems to crash due to its interference with the electromagnetic field. Your libido is unchained once more!
As the crash and clatter of marauding Mars assails the peace of narcotic Neptune, you decide that it will be the path of pleasure for you. No more healing with fruit or namby-pamby New Age nonsense for nitwit ninnies with aged and neurotic parents! Instead it'll be boisterous bonking, raunchy roistering and rumbustious rumpy-pumpy. The great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury insert a private member's bill into the nether regions of dark Pluto, underworld god. At a rather odd angle, it must be said, awakening your solar third house of communication with a peculiar thrust! Thus you decide to cry aloud your passion for the horizontal art for it has brought you back from the dead, has it not! By my sainted aunt (who, incidentally, did not know a thing of matters horizontal), indeed it has!
And what's this? Great gods alive and dead, it's the clattering of mischievous Mercury and the vain and selfish Sun god as they roll into supple, perverted Gemini, the two-faced one. You're seized with a froth and fury of inspiration. You will write a masterwork on the ancient art of coition. You will call it the Carnal Suture. You clever puny punster! Erotica tinged with sadness! How bittersweet, my tiny oxymorons! It will be a manual of the mechanics and the magic of the proper use of one's private parts.
'Set aside your merkins! Let's get down to the real thing,' you cry. Marauding Mars and vamping Venus copulate insanely and the New Moon comes in that selfsame sign of the Twins. You flee to a tropical isle with a brace of amoral sybarites, fixing to write the masterwork on intercourse whilst in flagrante delicto! Ye gods and little fishes! Where once you were 'very five minutes ago', now you're very 'now' for you will copulate, cogitate and compose in an orgiastic celebration of the pleasure of the flesh. But will you rise to the heights or sink to the depths with this new decadence of yours?
If you wish to read more of this irritating piffle, kindly click here next month and it may be that I will have written some. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my frightful little persons!