Nonsensical sense. By @dinglebobs

By Ben Conway


Nonsensical sense.



Here follows writing on an empty stomach, after a large white wine and an Amstel. I know writing doesn’t require drinking, but it sure made for some interesting connections on the page.



Make my turnips cousin a hot broth to cure his aching teeth. They are hollow and full of beans that stay fresh in the crevices created by the winter sun. You laugh, but he cries. As a showering pain works through his root.



Guzzling tadpoles will leave you rather French, with frog’s legs in your belly and a tendency to be seen weird for eating amphibians. Since when did ‘The Wind in the Willows’ become a five-course dinner? Theresa May and her cabinet can tell you about that.



The Queen could have sixteen nipples if she wanted. Twelve was enough after rampant royal incest kept bloodlines pure. Her corgis are cute, but the lack of lactation from her eleventh nipple is the cutest thing of all.



Vomit in my a*****e seemed like a prospect that was exciting, but when corn was being put into my a**e and not expelled from it, I began to question if my life choices were good ones. At least I was getting my five a day.



Can you really blame the colour red for what it has done? It slept with my dog and after threats made in court arguing that a casualty was not a shame – BUT A CRIME – my art teacher never looked at me the same again.



Shopping bags were good friends as I wept into my 888 Casino debt collection notice. Never has Noel Edmunds played a slightly compassionate role in my life, as I wept colder, to a woman who was one box away from winning £250,000. If only the dumb cow had claimed her PPI.



Synthetic tree’s made of a gelatin marshmallow. “Did I die for this??” cried a pack of smoky bacon. “You cannot talk you supermarket product, you.” He scowled at me as my leftover grapes talked in a collective disgust “How can I make it up to you?” They silenced and the cantaloupe said “Anal us”.



Leather that was once a living cow, if only my mother was regarded as such. She would make an excellent clutch. Nonetheless, we made do in wartime England, and she gave me her arm so I could get it made into a backpack for school. Her Paralympic career said it was lost in a car. I said moo.



Wee trapped inside,

you can cry to escape.

Like fat from the stomach

that American burgers make.

So tell me this ‘oh mystical one’

when was the last time

you got a good thumbing?



Stroke the cat, not her name, the disease. She got the name because we thought it would be funny. So I’m burning in hell, not Gordon Ramsay’s one the actual one. Television never felt so real. Can I have one, PLEASE MUM.



Tenderhook breath, you must have eaten cheese. My eyes are revising my grandmother’s teeth. I feel bad for looking, I don’t think she minds. Maybe the solution to elderly loneliness is in the gawping of their bits and bots that hang off.



Flowers are pickled in the tears of Theresa may – post Brexit life is weird as this is the one rule stipulated by the EU for Brexit to commence. Masterchef will never be the same again, as this garnish is a rarity in the modern kitchen.



Hairy cake, cut by our three year old mayor. Never has the world been more equal. Our bakers can forget health and safety, if that means we live in a tolerant society. “GOAL” shouts Susan Boyle as she plough her left toe into a fruit tart. Mary Barry stands on the cake, barefoot, in shock.




Trucks transporting tears, Evian has gone TOO far. In an effort to make the world water supply last longer they have started to screen Titanic to concentration camps of single 20 year old women. If only a good plot line could come to their savior.



Easily remembered as quickly forgotten. My glace cherries were in our cupboard for three years and a week. I got a dry mouth thinking about it. “Goodness – can you not get your factory produced fruit in order.” I said. “No, they’ve been out of order, one asked me to get the remote when he’s right next to it”.



Two people inhabit a window – nothing else. When it rains they can see it coming, it is a little wet without a roof though. My mother told me not to throw stones at glass houses “as soon as Mummy says stop, STOP”. So we did, and taking out a year plan for a conservatory has been the best decision we’ve ever made.



Buttons make for a delectable treat if you are a coat. I had never thought my shoes hunger for new laces and my ears for cheap metal from China. I am bound to be allergic to, my poor rusty ears. I should have never been a favour of mine, especially as it could’ve been worn as a cheap headpiece. Dammit skull.

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