17 March 2005

Hoi Polloi and the Postal Service Interlude

She had four white stallions coming up around the bend
Four strong angels at her command to send
Four more seasons, for all thats broken to mend
I got four good reasons why I cant go back there again

There's a clover in the aerie, just crooked and carved in the heady white thickset foam cloud brick in which we all reside at one time or another. Just two fingers measured from the foot of the bar to grace my glass and tell me the stories of heroism and well-slumbered sensuality that merely terrifies the most vehemenent woman alive. I've a graceful breast to press to mine in dream, a hat that stirs nothing but devious thought or laughter of some maniacal kind, but tis more than just for all my repugnaciousness in the hours yielding until dawn. Fight in the bloody cries of murder and the vast bending scream of decries for the end of a fragrant night, stagnant of sweat and beer and smokey afterthoughts. These "what if's" and "how so's" and all the rest of feather and chandalier so cavalier in its movements abreast of the beating thumbs on cab doors.
No more mania can seep at the edges when the drain has pulled shut, the rubberised necks of vulcanised personalities always cease to accomplish an inch of vestige of empathy for the quiet and contained. What light shall break these hushed little eyes seen rooms across the way, floating as it were, on an endless reverie of maddened ideals of straightforward approaches and confidences so easily betrayed. Killing all the flies with a six-foot mousetrap is more than overkill or euthanasia (kids in china) can hail to their god and pray for when the oxen fools so belov-ed and spiteful will be lacking in the purest of entertainment like american pie with ala mode on the side. (REDUNDANT).
I've got wings beating flap like tarps, whipping up sand storms on gobi highways to Santa Cruz and the Antarctic, that's to say the opposite side of hell and the eternal undamnable oppression I hate. But I prefer to hat things, to derby them or bowler their mothers womb that sprung them still onward and forward into the field of melons I enjoy smashing for seeds. And maybe one of those sorry sots so ten-gallon-ed or fedora-ed can be shire-d into county-hood, municiple and just in some sense of grave equilibrial evolving nature that escapes the best of me

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