Degradations world spawn and the grandiose waves of vender faced lights- starts the rise along-scatter-brained resolutions of nebulous pork chopped wish bones, the polar past of something to reminisce upon, the clinging shatter of two red wine glasses becoming, so becoming, a cheers in thought.
Cranking the wheel, conclusive heartaches were just a fixation on virtuous human bliss, propped up to die, on a broken roller coaster ride, this carnie scuffed man passing through your bantam tender town, with his decomposed chocolate teeth, his mind holding a zillion tales, his hired hounded silent fascia turning, swiveling, shaking the wheel, your life, in his hands, be sure to laugh and belittle him when the spinning stops.
Contort his face to your own rubbery foundation, clasp his brain, form any grief silently, throw your pretzel at his back, toss your half eaten hot dog near his feet, and let him weave the web you can't foresee.
"Can you please stop yelling in my ear! I can hear you perfectly fine from a distance!" Dilbert screams at his wife.
Look up yonder where the smoke turns invisible, fading into the o- zone and placidity. Wish me to a joyful place, where perfect strangers hug the human race, no questions asked, to many answers given, these silly little needs with threaded blunt exits into opinions on the soul. Some sort of triumphant jack ass kicking the shit with his hoofs in frustrating satisfaction. Beethoven skipping into the drug laced lips of a Mick Jaguar like strut. The moth won't stay still long enough for a good whack in the head.
"You gonna help pull this shit off of me! Or do I got's to do's it alone you asshole!" Dilbert's wife screams.
These dam toothaches, this virus like hitchhiker stinking up my pick up truck.
Realize, release, and re evaluate the tiny wiggly veins stuck in your teeth from dominoes hot wings. Arch the back bone to the exiting, existing thought pattern of flaky life like shimmering jungle fed dirt nailed burrito scam. Burning spiders and pissing in others milk doesn't make us king crowned corn turds, only reflects the image of crackling slow moving footsteps in dark fields, where monkeys swing from stalk to stalk, from table to chair, from coaster to car.
She's out there swinging tears from a bullwhip, all strapped up in her special Sunday s-n-m outfit, her feverish smile dripping from those seductive eyes. Sardines, saliva, anchovies, basement books, mothball bar man drinks, to the road I must go. Freeways, towns, women, to crush the mundane memory with in this mumbling method of destructive therapeutic mouthwash.
And nothing seems to make any sense.
This story Copyright 2002 Nicholas Morgan.
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