Scars of scarlet and lashings of
lounge music take me adrift to a shore that is inhabited by rapping homies that
have sinister plans for my truancy card. I can't help but think that they're
after my better days to make do with their own and perhaps sparkle a little wit
where no-one would expect to find any, let alone want to spend time with it.
The clatter and chatter and chitter on batter fills my head with every word
that they seem to say when they're actually saying numbers in horrific
sequences that go on for months with the intention of glowing and going and
gone. Some might say that today is the day they'll skype me with my trousers
down and demand all the usurping power I have in my exterior little pinkies. I
certainly wouldn't put it past them with all their selfishness and lack of
serious sense of humour. It's squishy like hummus on a flanked soldier
formation, they want to drain me of my lizard juice and tell me it all over
again. The leader of their gang is a mattress salesman, I feel obligated to
tell you this while the grafting is good and the hetero mode is shifted onto
the back pedal for the homo mode to take over. Expression is a good thing
provided its done in fancy hotels and integrates itself properly into the
community through smiles and handshakes and insane religious debate. This is
tiller man who wants to sign off but he can't, not until he's said your part as
well. I'll speak every word in a bedroom voice.
You have had your own experiences of
these scoundrels, you have met them on the beaches and fought with them in
little more than a cardigan and a pair of thin, weak socks. You would burn
twice as bright had you had the opportunity but then chance took over and when
chance takes over it ruins perfectly blue skies with mathematical possibilities
and that shit really throws you off your game. The women of the world seek your
blood in one way or another but they're really just tired of all the work they
have to put in because of tyrannical oppressors in their pressed suits and
really just want to take it out on you because you've seen their faults and
seek to expose them whenever the dog can afford it. It is young little helper, your
toxic sister with arms that flail in old hats hoping to find the magic that
leaves it residue on coatroom floors. The dog will go on being disappointed
while all the women of the world do not know of its identity and continue just
blaming you for everything you've been press-ganged into suggesting.
Implication hurts when it pisses back in your direction and they want you to
take a break whilst the day is still long and the cereal has yet to be
swallowed. This is your science fiction, dearest, let it out.
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