Calligula's Horse and Suited Hedgehogs

People look and tell me justboy.
I don't believe in anything,
that's the message in your eyes

Plastic-wrapped domestic lives are all the rage these days when window shopping on Bluelight Special and Broadway. From the fuzzy hip boots to dishpan hand waders like duck cap hunting calls, they're all the fat of the fads... except Georgio Mousilini piano wire, because there's yet to be a stronger tone. Hatred and Hallmark and Hellfire with Heaven all clad in bras at the Ann Taylor summer dress collection. They are the finest crowd all dapper and diligent. The wee nunce of a man who scorns them all, well we just like to call him Ed Partruition, but God is his name all the same.
"Just like all men
I gave up the sense"
, he said like enfuego futuristic plane fuselages roaring off my baseball cap.
Saturdays are coming past midnight, like trains past Chi to Cheyenne, so much better with pi to 9 digits. It's just a sad sappy state of temporary affairs
lost
in
perspiratory asphyxiation.
I am 66 on the 38th of this past month, a day that comes rarely in a millennia let alone two. But 66 ain't so old as 12. I flew the first idea straight past Orion at that age, a rocket of a young'n with a y'all swiftly tilting past my furry planet of an imagination. I read what I wrote like it was Jack London in the winter, just secluded me and the fire burning books in pyres like Dido.
Fantastic.
But dream it like you own the world.
Not just fantastic fantasy, but more like that raw dragon on earth with knights shooting lightning. These are the sorts of
echoes
that
tandem
out out out
just cyclic
out out out
cos without canyons I wouldn't have a pressure of memory back on my sulci and gyri slick as they are. Always floating in a sea of spinal tapped fluid with maybe a tad of meningitis, or the Scottish flu... I like that, what he said just then. It was something I would have said, though maybe I did and just lost it on its way down to the ear on the floor.
Floorboards.
Too many people scuff it and then all the sound goes out, like a deadpan ringer of a Charlie Chaplin soliloquy as Radiohead goes all piano and sans-vox for their next Brit Award round while dodging the Grammy's.
Parlay, parlay, parlay, and God said Ed was right but going by me was all the better.
Such nonsense, or no sense, or sense as it were would seem? But all the while the wee babe slept hung vineward in the vineyard once waylaid
hacked and strapped
to pieces, because they're all the better for stew and such brew as a personality should be. "What fun" said me as he.
"All golden men should merely begin from small ideas to trees."
Cheers.