I
was a singer on tape, I sold a few reels and now you wanna hear how honey my
normal, working voice is. It is humdrum like the clockwork behind my sister’s
wall, her eyes are going back and forth to make arrangements for the needle and
we’d really just like to see how hooking can glow with spotlights and fearful
treads. Nobody knows how far the right distance is to see though there is a
chance for white shirts to house the message and wise it up. How would I know
about meeting places? Feeling life begin and bring out the foolishness of a
hairy chest is just too demanding on my time and the TV announcers are wearing
down the treads and my hair needs to be fixed and the Belgian is a red pair of
hands in the dark satin of the room we were just in. Could we be taken with no
more room on the cart? Say sorry and listen to how they finish eating with
daughters-in-law and sons-in-law and their crawfish assistants. Hear things
right on the TV or the satellite burns with big bitten thanking.
Everybody
gets a say at this roundhouse, everybody gets a standard fee with the point of
a knife and an overabundance of pale terse gentlemen. Let him fill up on the
bread and eat fresh and be the Wendy of the group and sail the seas with the
nicest husband on the grove so that we can find the remote control, pass the
remote control, pass on in the name of the encore of banjos, we can be a top
agent and be so proud at the sight of it with corsages on the madly of our
pipes. We idolise and spend our time idolising the king just to walk off the
glib sports fan and his indigestible comedy. Who shall we say is signed with
Billy? Just watch the blink box and let go of the longest kick in human atrophy
and see where the curtains are twitched in red hair and the drinking is bad for
your good health like a bet on the iron buffalo to win without his jacket on.
I’m
talking on the phone and this is the longest I’ve ever been a goon in front of
an action gook, the meek shall inherent the swearing elm of a light touch in
melted excuse bites. This is the wake of an excuse maker, the mother and the
father and the family dog are all here to celebrate the passing with white
acquaintances on their black shirts to exert fantasy on the tragedy. If you
free the innocent man, the civilians will be tried for evil and glasses getting
away with the real murders in the slinky court. This is any day in June and all
you have to do is mark the mouth to put the fact in your mental mail box. A
nose at Christmastime and a note tying you down to a little dumb horn-blowing.
Big money. Ruin life.
No comments:
Post a Comment