Then racing for the sink
I shove my head in
And the world looks like heaven
It's all white
Pulleys and monsters squealing on the spin, and a single rope hanging the lot. Just a pretty little picture on a desk that somehow illustrates the diversity of the words "I hate school" as she said it the first time and again. Because it's not the professors that sleep with students and data thats contagious with BPV-4, not the line for returning the goodwill of all those before us, rather this is just textbook regurgitation through funnels past the incus, malleus, stapes suctioning down my brain amok with withdrawal from a cancer called society. I am prepared. Prepared to kill. Prepared to die. Prepared to judge. Funny thing is in all those centuries I forgot to prepare for living, just like bees, I did the song and dance, swept up and sowed the pollen need be sewn, but we all smack ourselves into windows or cobwebs while working to build the home thats not ours so much as ours.
Misdemeanor violations are merely demerits on our permanent records as we fold down the telegram lines between ourselves and what was the us of some greater social conscept, no? Now this is a rant I must say.
It's past late and early is on its way. Styrofoam napkins folded into party hats made for fashionable dips and sipping lasses, just tits flailing down and high heels in the midnight air above the bed, senuality and sexuality and fucking are all the same to them. But that's just more commentary, drivel driven from the same flesh-tone spark that slides its hand around waist and neck and thigh. Needless isn't a needed word in the english person, the American person. There are no politer people than the Scottish, for in the rest of this drab lil globe, wee tilted on its axis, people merely insist on smiling whilst they screw you in the back-seat of a volkswagen, volvo, or in the case of upper class, the rolls or bentley.
I am a simpering tired little child, wishing for things instead of hope, because hope itself is a failure of a concept. Released from its box, Pandora rifled through what was left and found that funny bazooka, took aim, and launched all the hatred past the stars and annhilated, extricated from life, that leafless flying dream-like nuance. Hope. Dead. Deal with it. But please do not consider me bitter, seriously, I really am far from angry or depressed, merely musing at the silly ideas we hold, as if we were able to resist.
A distict lack of inspiration or lack of motivation or lack in general is so befalling, it is fell, it is like drooling ghastly, gawking and at a loss for any thought cogitent and profound. Dried up.
I still see the beaches in hollow bones as I cut through the congealed marrow and beneath the periosteum, just a tiny mare, maria, saintly in its tepid pooling. Cut through mine and detours immerse the streets, just orange signs and traffic jams like donuts in a cardiac patient past his prime. Prime. Peak, the top of performance, but of what. I'll measure success just the same I measure men and women. I'll measure it all through glassy eyes on a death bed, not by the money or the women I've bedded, not this besting of others. Why so competitive, so determined to carry on in a biological fashion. So surreal. So boring, I realise, but you're no better to look at, all hips and curves on the A74. Just clip along, good pace with good things in tow, just move along looking for the people that will be fine with the mediocrity they impose.
No cheers for you.