Twist me rotten for I am the father
of the holy nothing-too-obviousness. Right honourable position, that is. I'm
sure you'll agree when you get round to finding your teeth. I hear them
whistling the theme of Genghis Khan as he played the bagpipes to martyrdom. I
am filled with a joy so sacred I can only describe it as dangling helplessly
over a pretty little chasm. Oh blessed yo-yos and utopian salami! Freshness is
tasteless any other day of the week and I want a receipt that tells me that in
so many words I can fit inside a granule. Contain the weather guard before he
clothes the line with street snow and helplessly runny grit. Do you grasp the
snout of this situation, it is a heavy-breather and filled with naughty nasal
hair that curves and grinds against the norm. I am a cupboard door, opening to
your lives. Clattering light switches won't help you this time, you bad man. This
time, age isn't an excuse. I have roses on your garden path and they will lead
you to a better understanding.
Marmalade roses, marmalade
eggy-bread, marmalade Mara, SHUT THIS DOWN BEFORE I SQUELCH!
I suppose I am losing someone's mind,
though I can't say for certain it has anything to do with me personally. The
thoughts are concentric and rely on hopeful cuddles with a teen from Marsden. I
have antennae: wanna see? Yes, well, I suppose I have been neglecting my duty.
Yes, well, of course, I, um, yes, well, maybe, probably, so. I'm sure I'll find
a better explanation when you give me the space and the time to waste in video
game technology. The rain is a diversion for the empty hand: launch yourself
and see that the problem is seen to before it becomes another big shit storm.
Grandma, Grandma, where is Grandma?
Maybe Grandpa will know. Maybe Mara will know if Grandpa knows. Erasmus is
taking the afternoon off and rightly so. Pencil it in before it slips our
mutual mind. The wires of my heavenly thoughts are dangling and I daren't join
them back together without proper insulation. I am bound for the horizon: do
you know where I could find it without going through the obligatory phone
conversation with God or his supervisor? He is a cardboard cut-out for my
meanness in this case.
Runny lines.
Pitch.
Blotch.
Bambi did a bad thing involving
pinecones and pining for little sister's hair extensions. They are the only
source of comfort in a comfortless world of sofa cushions that ride up the bum.
Mesh lightly. I know how to tango but I'm not benefiting you with that
knowledge; not until your eighteen and filled with resentment. I am the twig
and your are the leaf, little one: remember our places. Lather the soul with
butternut squashes and key chain mistakes. This is blameless as are we all when
it comes down to it. At the bottom of the aeroplane, we are all blameless.
No comments:
Post a Comment