||[May. 10th, 2010|12:02 am]
'DESMOND DASIES EATS PAPER FLOWERS. '|
tra-lala, my fishnet stockings! today's the day in our traveling caravan to simply get the fuck out. no hippos needed, no disturbances allowed. no elephants in the room with roasted marshmallows and the soot of the fireplace hanging with the bouquet up in the chimney, dangling prisms from fossilized eleven fingerprints, seedy seedy watermelon eyes and astronauts in ancient drawings. cavemen had dreams too! thunderous dreams to fly with Zeus - share a story of different hands. no nah this post-modernism isn't the apocalypse, baby, baby, would it make sense if i say it's the future - time-machine eyes now, rolling scepter of a magic eight ball, or some psychedelic snow-globe. fuck it child, this ain't supposed to be coherent, or accessible. it's just supposed to hover around in radiation till the icicles are suddenly prepped for war, frozen tundras till the streets turn blue.
i ain't here to fuck around, but dream a little dream of sophilism, what -what a fucking narcissist.
(maybe it's the dollar signs or the picture-perfect poster market, eh, eh? what's gibberish besides an action. it's defined. burn some oil for the flames. we'd all been waiting for a light show & the fireworks are out of service. think a new hobby is in order. ordering. ten for sale but i ain't got a fetish kink so cross that one out - or not, y`know, i can sell em too. larger wheelbarrow profits. can't keep the towel. towels are good for scaling wires, fences are a bitch. bring out a monster-truck and then we've got a good thing going. how many medals tomorrow? enough to plate your feet with gold and rot in the ground? the trees won't speak, this ain't a fucking fairytale, darling. what'd you want, angels? nah, get your puppets in order, which flesh is better, the one on the right or the one on the left? why the soap-opera dramatics? hell, broadway's not opening up new curtains.
tuh-tump, tuh-tump; beating hearts in loaded singles, more dots on the horizon & the view point is all circular.
somewhere in the abrasiveness of the system - swallowing hiccups - there will be a return of some intact cause to utopia. (but we're grasping straws - they all pull up the same length, communist equality or an over-abundance of choices leaving a lack (of any, any at all.). put some more chemicals in the bomb, baby. a harsher tilt of your hip. )
i'd like a little less collection & a little more direction, but i've lost the magnets & the compass and maybe it's all undecided.
more camera flashes - singlets, numbered with an ease and thrown with a flourish. missing puzzle pieces and gnawed cheeks. (why is paranoia just another game word for secrecy? - think i need less of a lack of insight or a stronger shot.)
(i see you.)
dude, i'm just an excellent actor. whoever reads this, hell. my imagination's just a train-track. clubhouses along the way. play a little game, we've all got lives to live. (and this ain't mine. think somewhere regions away? universe concepts twist with infinity and maybe this is just another finger-print in some empty star.)
what'd you think, the emotions were real? eh, break off a piece you'd swallow and write me a sonnet. - give me no praise or what the hell not. sometimes i think we need new rules.
let's fly a kite.