A maverick, am I. Am I maverick?
Could we go again please, please again go? We could. My mind is a see saw and I
saw while you see. It's the past and the present merging into the pluperfect,
destructing the heavenly teapot again and again like some mad incestuous fist.
Teeth are metal shards and lack fragrant Tobias and all his merry grown sheep.
They suckle on his brow and feed from his major vessels like the sinister
mothers they came from. Origins are heartbreaking to the wrong few. It's like
curtains folding back to presume an old man with a flop haircut. Xylophones
play throughout his funeral and we all stand back as if we've been hurt by his
mere existence. How trepidation brings us down like a bad occasion.
Drawing aside the fat flaps we
can see the problem head-on in all its fiery bliss. You're a braggart and a flea-spun
jewel that refuses to go back inside its sock. Bending the grain is the only
way forward in such a retrospective manner as this. The beard goes down well with
a slice of ham drizzled in drachma. Numerical values pop around like problems
all their own. It's the fizzing that gets me down. The prism is a chainmail
jacket for just a tidy sum. Messy Sue and all her husbands are somewhere
inside, lurking about with their feather dusters and blind spots. It really is
a volatile situation for the right kind of money. Then again, we are sturdy
enough for this.
Have we not seen warfare? Have
we not seen death played out with Hungarian subtitles? Have we? I really can't
remember or recall, unless of course it was during our pet's holiday. Crude oil
was our bed and apprehension of the day
ahead was a pillow of yeast. We had antlers back then, and attitude to get us
by. Now what do we have? Gigantic thumbs and no place to stick them. I tried
the plug socket but that wasn't a good enough pastime. I tried to back door but
the thrush was too jolly about it. Grafting the flesh is the right means to an
end, let's march on with it in our trouser leg. Pick the middle one: it
pronounces the sadness better, plays the tune mournfully and quintessential.
Our fortitude is slipping like road blocks on an icy pavement, it's all melting
in the gutter like something out of a poor movie.
We can try dunking the living
priest till he renounces his flock then we can all go for a bath down the mill
and then maybe even a cup of tea if you fancy it. The handles at this level are
for the blind and the dumb, so there's really not point trying to aggravate
them for their pennies. Stitches work just as well and provide fewer traces.
The police are right nosy when it comes down to it. I have a finger in each pie
but you don't see me crying about it.
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