155

Is it true, that the sun, is merely an annoyance? If you want a smoking gun, you’ll find one. I don’t want deli trays, soft drinks, candy, swivel chairs. Enough post-coitol, laying around. Then, why was I standing in the middle of Maple road, star-struck, was it the beans? Watching them divide, and recombine, taking you on, molecularly. Forlorn in the music store, I gotta' get out of here. What's made of bronze, and leather, with ideas? Never a penny lost, or nickel saved. When my voice cracks, why I know I can't go on. The whole world changes, when the lights turn green. Open intoxicants, underage girls, I'm off track, and unnoticeable. You look up, in a flagrant artist's arms, the letters trickle back in. Never have been run out of town, but I've been shown the way out, around, nothing will change. Free to contradict, be inconsistent, most of this jizz, will remain in my cloud. Some juice in the lemon, can't he squeezed, save it for next time. We thought, nothing else. This is somewhere, too expensive. Was I drunk? Let me know for my records; illegible. Beaver in the headlights, easier in the soap dish, after Communion. Cloned, and dehydrated, Europe crumbles into the sea! Looking into the situation, seeing that something else is in order, attached to the building? Central themes, seem to repeat themselves. I exploit me! Would I see it now, as a classic, if I had the time? I think you’re about fifty, in actuality. Let them, be talk show hosts, let them, try to cover up the murder, let them have their fifteen minutes, I already had mine. Write faster, time is draining, I'm always polite on the phone, so call me up, you may get depressed, you may be amused. Four years of that, and I need more? Let's do some transcribing, lets change the way your voice sounds, the clothes you wear, lets change why, or how, you make no sense. Stop saying hick, it makes you sound like a Martian. Doing one thing at once, what is the Lonark? I sit here, and do nothing, wait for the clock to tick by, and tell me how much I made today. There aren't too many places, that I haven't been, pulled over. Ridiculously painful, I don't think anything really makes, it worth it. Not a stupid person, doing stupid things. That's what I'm saying now; I am coughing, not able to describe. Wanting, not doing, leads to flunking. There was a gateway left open, that wasn’t taken, or two. We should wear turbans. I will continue to hit you, until you learn. There must be something to learn, and you will now commence, to learn it. Sow your oats, and get a tan. Collecting bugs, and dried flowers, pins, needles, to sit there, so quietly, wondering where the week went. Parroting, and stocking up the tribunals of yesterday, there will be an interception. The hello's, deferred, seventeen numbers, sixty-two things. All that we can count on, borrowed time, canned laughter, stifling predicaments, and I swallow (Sterile Urban Porch). Clearness in reason, dives sullen, into empty pools, it’s the whole contraction, and eucalyptic, of the universe, of time, of things unseen, and sheltered. A beer can adornment, on the window sill. The paint is dry, we only saw part of the expression. Downtown, gives me ideas of where the lives of men, are really lived. My blinds were always open, but I could never see. Even the horses, get lonely here. There should still be a division of labor. They sit there, night, after night, expecting Blanche to foil, from the disco globe axiomatics. Dragged, and dumped out, at the scene of the crime. Reaching in, with demon squash swipes, harming the sheltered people, faces smeared off, in mid axis of the creative spin. This is the way of the unamused. A year, now seems like two and a half weeks.
Crushed again, what am I doing wrong? Freak show, a sewage outlet, skinny dip. They are there, and they are really big, to warrant shame, guilt, believe me, right now; there are innumerable problems, out there. Really bizarre, so much in my head, and I don't talk. Happiness comes and goes, within the minute; a strobe light, must be somewhere, nearby. They look like they know the secret. People, just getting ready to die. My masks, and myths, different per the situation, no smiling, cherub-boy, god-head figure, that's one of those things, we'll never forget. Don’t let that happen, now (this will not work)! I no longer even know how to respond. I am the bitch you were worried about. Get a voice, for what you want to say. Be Dostoevsky, in drag. Go see a shrink. The artist of the day? It’s lots of whiskey, now. We’ll regret it all, anyhow. The important thing to do, is, to ask. The lips came to the forefront. The stereotypical farm girls, are on parade. Slap the dumb part, out. Too much has happened, in the interim. Culture, is a womb/tomb. Talking to another thing, there's nothing there. The heater still smells like a brand new car. Cut down on the noise. Trying to get what I'm saying, heard? You have to beat yourself, before you can beat anyone else. I should, remain quiet, but it's unbearable, here. Here we are, oh, my goodness. Boy, lets have fun. Red lights, white lines, turn arounds, shopping centers, strip malls, we've got them! Constant snorting, wet street, green, modern. Smells like maple syrup, multiple boots, say you’re going to sneeze, then, burp. That's the cum blanket, the new version, clutters all of their medicine cabinets. I'm on the side of the guy in the ditch. This hypnotizing carpet, has me all tied up in knots. Burying their enemies, in hand crafted pots, and pans. They lie all over the back of scenic, desk drop off zones. Wine can spill into the deepest grooves, of everybody's self consciousness. It's getting louder, all the time. She dumped him, for freedom, you've gotta' respect a gal like that. There's no room in my scenery, for that missy, however. Booklets don't go far enough, in their descriptions of emptiness. The mime fell over, and hurt his side, hand, and face. Get together once a year, to discuss plans to take over the metropolis. I guess, they find the impossible, interesting. Conspiracies, and jelly belt jobs, where I split my hairs. Sometimes, on a roll, sometimes, on cardboard boxes, forget your individuality. Parted on the left, it looked like sex, on glossy paper. Choppy writing, clips, described a lot, yet, must be explained. The must end, bullfighter. Wanting it to matter, and mean something. Guess what? I am obnoxious, it really is gross, pathetic. The zero rule, of movement, and direction, filing in, and out, of the thrift stores, and parking structures, some people, can tell, some people, can’t. Questionable, a grasp on things, some measure of success, fixations on railroads, in, and of, themselves (admit that, too). Destructive, because I failed at it. Everything that's hip, and happening? The next day, I woke up, and I never felt better, and, uh, whatever. It'll probably be the way I go out, it shouldn't matter A little chill through my back, it's a little itchy. Please, let me hear someone else, talk, I just want to sit here, quietly, I've never realized what a self centered, narcissistic, whiner, I was. I'm a snorting, coughing, poor, little, roach/boy, mess. The slither, and slide, got all that “being” stuff, sorted out for us, the wrong way. Flour the ozone, with a slight push. The jail is being kept warm for us, just in case. I missed all of my marks. The toilet paper, was so coarse.
The Irish way, is silence. This is how we die, one at a time. Happiness, is just so much fat, on the brain. Your tone, is what I can’t stand. Like, I don’t matter, “You don’t,” he said. After that, I don't know what we'll do, but I do know this, it has to be done. Get rid of him, or her. They repeat themselves, I shower them. The boots are missing, insignificant. Strolling through my little black book, of hand exercises. A sodium product, pointless to put in jewelry boxes. I saw the drop off point. Fantasy light magnificence, didn't look that hot, when they stepped outside. Drool stains on my pillow, and unworn clothing. I disappoint the carbon paper, walking through a toaster oven. Needing help, just makes them want to cream their own corn. You missed the bus, stroked the midnight. Stupid, romantic? Dung, and thatch, remembrance, ego, invigoration. Mr. Scotch, was all in line, at the totem chip, guard rail. Destroy the factory. We'll prank call her. Dream landscapes, are my only backdrop, for any sort of meaningful conversation. What is your goal, karaoke? I wouldn't want to be my friend, if those were the kinds of things I thought, and said. The sad part is, that is all, I think about, everyday, is the same. Get the one word that describes you, it won't be a nice one, that's for sure. I'm talking about myself, not in any way, humbled, an asshole, a rubbed off, jerk, The scenery was erased, deconstructed. Dismiss me, quickly. Oh, I know who I am, but I’m not about to share that information with you. It’s always a crapshoot, a gigantic, maybe. No compassion, or caring, for anyone, looking down my nose at them, but, who am I? Spoon her it, around. These are only the consequences of my actions. Bigger they are, the harder they fall. Losers keep losing, and winners, keep winning. Please, just let me get away with all of this. A half hour, seems like a year, the sad epilogue, the marriage, is off. Finishing the job, getting something done, before the election, the outcome, is known. The way of the world, I remember midtown, but not the one I wanted to see. They have torn down every building, that matters, and made a bunch of parking lots. All the supper clubs, are gone, there is nowhere to go. I know something used to be here, I can tell, that this was once not possible. Consult the ahistorian, make a Minnesota, to complement my belly button. The philologist, was loud, and obnoxious, made claims. The greatest brand on the market, I just wanted to lick you, you sent me away. I couldn't reason my way out of a paper bag, however. That's usually where some kind of sexual assault, happens; right in the middle of a homoerotic, mood swing. Sweeping the dust down the stairs, lightning bug season, walking along the interstate. Forget publishers, this is a workbook, I don't remember if that's the way it happened, or not, but it did happen, during both sessions, I suppose, that's why people bought it. Looking preoccupied, undynamic, in need of logotherapy, on the floor, with pen and pencil. That's inconsistent, and that's beneficial for your garden, mulch, raw sewage. Fuck the pumpkin! Bury your shovel, deep into never-never land. He's underground, I want to live in the side of a canyon, I want to learn to live, for free. There's a point to be made in clouds, and African drum sessions, they came in fast with a bag of slightly crushed, recyclable, plastic bottles. I don’t feel at all, that well, right now. The floor was like sunshine. Have a breakdown.