Bohemia Village Voice

Made It

As and when the old Grey watchmaker of Silver Hills offhanded the lower case android ley, his intelligent designer impunity, within in the community, annexed at the local dripping spring, hadn’t really done much due diligence on the mono-pusher of ley’s duple dimensions.
A pensive nod-and-a-wink at the thick hollow block, as requisitioned from Travis Perking round the corner when, running late again, he gave ley the breath of life; making damn sure not to inhale the bitter back-draft, eugh!
It was definitely an analogue of him, straight off defensive! Having resorted to the fiendishly dark redactor pen in order to corrupt Le ley (as decreed by the Counsel of Vandal Proof Painted Guardrails when he clanged his calculating index finger along them at the Woodland Vale Primary). Between the pub and the timber merchant he’d revised the project plain and simply unaccountable, for the duration.
And, behind the moment with an old-spec metronome obtained from ‘Legends’ bargain basement, he’d hurriedly installed the ersatz regulating organ with a jittery offset (123bpm) between the bellows, time in essence. Specific gravity pressing him hard to touch base with the North Star, he’d surreptitiously waylaid his course back through the fourth dimension; the imposing towers at Four Courts looming over the three-cornered portal roundabout, the crown of the arterial Bohemia Road, its bulbous base pointed pear-shaped in a Don Quixote crescendo.
He’d charged on theatrically up Windmill Road, to get to Drury Lane, auditioning at the Royal [mail] Sorting Office for a West End curtain call; The Bo-Peep public house, one, two, and three jugs more sir; another overnight sensation.
And, like most worst hangovers, out from the caves popped Upper Park Made-ley, smuggling copious amounts of booze in his clockwork handcart through the subways, undermining our cultural mainstream. Bereft of bridges to burn, leymen torched the pier simply for being connected (-to-the-shore); they demolished the old Marina ballroom whilst priming La Leyla prodigies at the still point where the dance was – blowing out all competing exotics like trees from the park (it wasn’t a hurricane . . .), candles on a cake.
Indigenous ones lapped it up like sun cream, flattered at leisure. Alexandria bathed in the factored gradation scale of celebrity, blissfully unaware of the giant subway machines reaming out the sewers below whence Rose-tinted leymen emerged under cover of sealed brown envelopes stamped: Vitamin ‘D’ in white ‘Jackson’s me-ilk’ vans; replete with little yellow sun hat hubcaps; vertical Venetian blinds in lieu of regulatory pessimistic windscreen wipers.
On a bounce from the humming Hazelnut of Blear, beguiled by St Leonard’s fanciful and bright, they’d failed to notice how bipolar our icecaps could be: ‘Clambers!’
The leymen totally eclipsed our average Jack Black (& Joe White) telegenic, who pushed constantly for more trivia, dropped a catastrophic top in the lap of ley: KC Deluxe (anti-glare-less laptop) ? Big Mistake! Every time Made-ley made to fiddle his non-bio at close scrutiny, the mirror imagery from cyberspace returned his fake tan, only; hoisted on its own petard – HD.
An ensuing sycophantic morass of plastic-doll speech-activation cords touchingly feelingly made their way out via his concentrically challenged back belly button, defensibility mechanisms duly conflicted; grasping paraphernalia at tricky-dickey persona buffers. Neo-leys were unchaining their net-books, dutifully cast unto shallower waters of uniformity (generic rock pools) whilst overshooting the Love Cafe, prematurely (okay! It’s not what it sounds like) they came, by accident.
As the clocks went forward, funnily enough, as seduced by the inverted shopping trolleys down by Bottle Alley, he went, empty handed in his head.