Honey production goes on for
hours and hours showing no sign of changing colour or even density. I work very
hard usually to see the emotional range of most light bulbs but they just can't
take the sort of depraved pictures I show them. These are the pictures that lie
at the bottom of my wallet, gathering muck and spunk marks. Exactly one week
ago, I was the five o'clock shadow and now I'm merely an attachment to it. This
is a captor's game, a dangerous dangle in the authority's leakage. A hoarder
makes for weak paste and even frailer tea bags but the media has yet to
recognise this as gospel. A sixteen year old told it to me in confidence so I
must prepare for the inevitable Cuban catastrophe to fall and flail around on
my shoulders. I have been rather unkind. I won't say why, at least not until
the hospital.
A crooner leaves me with gold in
my pockets, that's the beginning of an adage in case you're wondering. Of all
the things to say to a kindly crooner I ask him where he keeps his bathroom
salts. The crooner replies that he's just going somewhere to someplace, passing
the whole door-to-door business as he goes by. It's a fulfilment, a promise
held up in silence as the isotopes gather around to exhume it. Why does the
process take so long? Why do I grow wings but continue to squeak? I'm headed
for the park but sometimes it feels like I'm surprisingly divergent. That'll
teach me to scarper when ladies are present.
Over a hundred hours ago I barfed
on a burst of scallops. I can forget it very easily but I see no reason why
anyone should forget about it. It's the character of me that's compelling, not
so much whether I'm a black dude or not. I did shoot a man once, by mistake. He
thought I was a swamp dweller and I assumed he was out to teach me the Laws of Hanukah.
He told me there are no such laws but that never once lowered my guard. So I
lowered him for plenty of gold bars.
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