October arrives, like a pack of rain-matted apes dragging a tarp full of spoiled ham through an abandoned funfair, urged on by a trudging dunce swinging a length of chain. Walk on, boys, walk on
October arrives, like a crumpled cigarette packet pushed through your letterbox by a clammy, shaking hand, containing a single ailing wasp
October arrives, like a businessman crawling over the threshold of a travelodge room with lapels reeking of lager. He looks up with watery eyes to behold Bungle from Rainbow, sitting in funereal silence on the bed
Actually to be fair it's a pretty beautiful morning, but I've got a bit of a word itch on today
October arrives like the idiot king of a stag weekend, looming at the door of a ryanair jet wreathed in chilly sunday gloom. Clearing his throat, he braces himself, then heaves off his own head to weak cheers from the Lads.
October arrives, like a kilo of spam being mashed through a sieve by a bored gorilla. The gorilla isn't thinking about what it's doing; it's just looking off into space as the pink, foamy meat springs from the holes
October arrives, like a barrel of lukewarm piss being hoofed into a logchipper by a joyless lumberjack
October arrives like a gaunt simpleton capering out of a derelict caravan, trying to sell you a look at the dead fly held in his cupped, trembling hands
October arrives, like a sweating titan with a pumpkin for a head, bursting through an oil painting of a ghost with a curt whoop, then charging scalp-first into a concrete wall
October arrives, like a smudge of heat-shimmer on a dune's crest. It boils over and resolves into the image of a morose ogre, dragging a rusted anchor across the desert with dry, calloused hands.
October arrives like a shitfaced man at a child's birthday party, losing control of an air guitar and taking two wild steps sideways, before collapsing backwards into a cake
