loosely held words fall onto my confession. poor confession. mean confession. no words do justice to the nailed palms of manstupid.
in the plot versus attitude wars neither are winning. i will deny my self, swim with the rest of you. in the calm current pictures of separation let them be, let them be themselves. let them find illumination in mankindling.
at another peer, clueless one another’s skinny breezing tightly. puzzle tempered mommys for jesus love me too.
let’s consider consequences or count something. our blessings. cripples. fight endlessly to save the indians. they will make their triumphant return yes. i’m a player of many returns.
let’s quantify our results. let’s. they bridge our attempts. they become one with all and forever fill our needs, or at least my fruit baskets are never eaten. humph.
let’s have many sappy returns nappily attired or given. let’s crease things under foot. save a nickle, miss your prime. never fear the retarded sense, the natural worded coiffure for the ages. never mind failure. a topsy conclusion. a bad clarification day.
never use the word ‘splay’. i’m warning you. and within that warning becomes the infinite. the hard crested shells of your ambitions splayed out before you inedible. rotten for years. or what years become when they are no longer with us. what’s the point? the big eye in the sky is blankly staring at cattle being caressed by crows on their way to the abbattoir. don’t ask me why you are bitch-slapped from here to eternity. if i were to take any cake i made and baked it better…why… this is a promise. do not believe it. score heavily on the oh sigh leaves me factor. we will slow down now and look at things. dot.
trees rustle cattle and hang from the moon where the cup and the spoon have run away with the fable. mable, it seems, has stolen the originals and left town with the assistant. not that this stops the show. it still smiles smartly on the landscape foreshadowing danger and rotting teeth (which die in life and thrive in their own shunt corners of planned escape later). but, now, in this life, the director has decided to throw up his hands in despair during the maddening roar surrounding serranno’s ‘piss-jesus’ – lest you forget, he will save you if you are easily distracted. that is a life lesson and should be taken with you to breeding parties and red sea skinny dipping. bring your reminiscences of callow juice and fortune baked.
in the new life it’s a modest emporium of clever silk laced handcuffs and wispy blow jobs. it licks tenderly on veins of superstition and drains freely through the fingers of desperation. it sips wine flavored testimonials to how you’ll spend your night tomorrow if only you can reach yer wanna and have some left over for the morning. i’d be motivated to spend all night with this if i had been disciplined by a round-spectacled crusading martinet. i’d hand in my paper and go out for coffee with my hero Bill, the magical effuser. the f using son of a bitch might call me back to give me all his secrets on how to whip the willing and trip the fleecing. smack me in the face with his fishing expedition guide book. won’t go back on his word to my scene setting tarantula crawling.
let me skip the life step into your spina bifida. don’t reveal any monkeys to be. let yourself slip under the surface of this lake of jesus’ pee. don’t swim. revel. be happy. celebrate the cesspool. celebrate your disease. die of terminal laughter. don’t go gently into that slaughter. or do. do unto you as you would have. you have no choice in the matter/doesn’t matter anyway.
would you rather be pointless or have a 1932 map? you decide. because, after all, it’s the year 2049 and you are dying of smiles. good for you. have a pleasant foreboding. don’t forget the.
