Addendum. How do you say
addendum? How do you say addendum to a little old lady who has keeled over on
her side right in the middle of a bus lane? Do you say addendum at all? Has she
done anything to deserve it? Does she deserve something else? A knighthood
perhaps? Should we pick her up on our ameliorative shoulders and shimmy her to
a star-studded audition? Might she sink or swim? Might she have need for any
more legal advice? Should she seek out an independent party to mediate? Should
she bring the cake decorations? I think she might be a Georgian.
The tarmac has its own story to
tell. It doesn't want to be here anymore, it has so many things on its mind. It
keeps telling me:
Despite
being a duly-noted pen top, I have done very little to contribute to the stymie
storm. I've always been a derring-do, derring-do, gung-ho, gung-ho betrothal to
a misty mastiff. I have always been its bitch, sneaking up its tail whenever
the big black man comes to take us to the park. I so wish I could belong
anywhere else but then my earrings are falling off and I'm in the process of sullying
the reputation of this fine musician to the side of our sidelines. It hits you
to see such a sharp thing go to waste, such a shifty element that transposes
itself with the cold consistency of retractable steel. I am a slut to action, a
trampoline borrowing its shtick from a loose trombone, fitting its nozzle
around the indelicate neighbourhood like so much cock. I am cheap tarmac, a bit
of grey that is just a bit of grey. I could be a great composer, I have the
ridiculous posture ready and at my disposal. They told me that's all it takes
to be a foothold, a scratch on the page of spiralling leather bound. I'm
practically careening practicality.
It is at this point that the
rest of the eyewitnesses start to jog off in the hopes that their new exercise
regime might bring them into a dizzying state of enlightenment. If only the
world could remind them that this is East Texas and we already do that sort of
shit anyway, easy as rolling bucks off a black Buick.
No-one knows where to see the
drunk people peep show but that's where the littlest of the witnesses comes in,
this tiny champ knows where one can see some real dirty Elephantitis. Be careful
though, the victims usually carry guns in there and not cuddly ones either. The
bullets go in nice and easy and come out rough and slow. The cordite foists
itself on the placidity of the plastic underbelly of the illegal neighbourhood.
Heretofore. The world is
heretofore. The populace could be heretofore. Should anyone mention the
populace while heretofore is yet to be done? Can heretofore be done? Can heretofore
even be heard by human-sized ears? Is heretofore a number sequence? Are we
suddenly spies now?
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