Narcissist,
you fell into the pit. You are the narcissist with his back in piece and slices
of his spinal column prepared in a tope bag with the hopes of rock music
yawning outside of its maturity. There’s a lazy method to all this art, a
glitter ball filled with graphic novels about what you came to this planet for
in the first place. She’s buying a sign from the wall, that woman over there,
she has a sweet certainty to her two select movements. She befriends all the
songbirds, we’ve noticed. Narcissist, we have misgivings about her relationship
with you and it makes the feelings come thick and fast without the protection
of safety goggles.
After
leaving the crying game with the rings of smoke and their vocalised
straightness, it makes me wonder about the trout trawler and the ways that it
gathers the nets to its whispery chest. If we call up the piper he might reason
the length and breadth to echoing laughter and canned reactions to that clipped
moment. If there’s a bustle to be had, we shall notice it and you, as the
narcissist, will be sent out on your jollies to counteract the problem via the
innovative methods of deckchair physics. Erasure by Erasmus doesn’t come close.
Your head is humming because the nurse has met with the piper and he’s already
settling down to a cacophonous brood of riff-shaped toddlers.
Wheedle
away the hours with hippy rigs, flower power towers that rise up all the way
into the blended rarefied air for the sake of old women talking about their sex
life in a candid and unrepentant way. The show wants to show and the shower
wants to listen very warmly to your conquered lies and whimpering rolls of the
duct tape. Say whoa to the saxophone and play back the audio, it will tell you
plenty about the state of most of your sleeves and how the cufflinks feel about
it. Here’s a hint: so unsure. As the eyes call out for death rattles and
general screams without rhythm and salient applicability. Time cannot
emasculate the mending of green soldiers into kind ignorance. There’s no
comfort to be had from Neil, he hasn’t been around as much and yet he isn’t
quite the fool for quitting all this.
You
remain the narcissist and the consolation is tonight. Lose the crowd and hurt
the things that you want to name if only to feel the shapes you form with your
lips. Who’s going to dance again? Who’s pretending to be the Jewish actor at
the end of a wasted film? The dancers are trying their darnedest to stack up
the notations with the bones on a 3D landscape. You are so wrong to leave me
alone with the cast off and the literature so expository. Mark the thirteen
ordinary British men abandoned on an island to peel bananas for the duration of
their measly stay. Do they think that walls can sprout out of plain sand?
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