I CAN'T THINK OF A TITLE FOR THIS
And then these little lonely people crawled out from under their grey
mushrooms and stared right at the sun behind the clouds. These homeless
men with dirty blankets. These scavengers amongst the Holy members.
Thank God then because the woman standing next to me starting singing to
prevent me from vomiting into the pavement and on the rusty drain. It
all started with the enormous woman in the passenger seat eating the
Chocolate Log, not because she was hungry, but because they were all
hungry, it was pure escapist artistry. The massive fingers licked by the
desensitised tongue and then the wrapper was even-licked. Unfortunately
you weren't there to feel this terror behind the building orgasm of
rubble and construction. With their hands on top of their heads the
people scored another moment of sanctuary from this personal apocalypse.
The hungry fighters.
Sweating in the sun I saw an angel perched upon a mountain bicycle and
motioned at her to beware of the demons in the pharmacy. These demons
multiply seven times seven years. All the employees formed a picket
beyond the width of the sidewalk beyond the pavement. If only this was
true we would all become free pavement eating nocturnal feeders. I'm
sorry but I can't hear what you just said. The traffic light just turned
orange or amber I think, and I'm quite far away still so I pull my foot
slightly off the accelerator and try not to blink as I watch for it to
blossom green again. I don't want to slow to a stop. I'm going to cruise
right through the musical cattle cars. Pushing my forehead against the
window doesn't help, laying on my back in the dark. Writing an sms is
like drilling holes into soap bubbles. Every time I stand up I'm
immediately looking into my surroundings to find things to tie me down
to this evening or whatever.
I'm sure that you just said something but I'm too scared to ask you in
case you actually did.
I'm sure there was something but I'm not sure because I can't trust
myself right now.
There you go again with your brights on. And this plate of food will
come around again on a round-trip microwave extravaganza. The smell from
the neighbour's perfume rolls up like the steam painting the walls in
the kitchen from the pot. Simile extravaganza. Stupid things to cling
to. Hope it's not another crappy song. These crappy radio songs I hear
in my sleep help to keep the time when the water is stampeding the drain
and the windows were all painted nail polish. Stainedglass. Is that a
word? The best is when you run over it and over it in your head and then
stainedglass stainedglass stainedglass begins to not sound like a real
word anymore like camels. Do that all the time and no-one will ever
believe what they're saying. Fuck language. Grunts are better.
Monosyllabic consonants. Fuck vowels. Mmmm. Sss... Rr.
Fuck, nothing is making sense anymore. Take in the world. All the world.
Every living sentient being we're all connected on some blissful level
devoid of sin and heavily laden with blissful things that make everyone
feel at home like a never-ending dream. Let's all hate waking up as one.
Harpies. Keep off the grass keep out no trespassers. Here's a shotgun
and here's some shotgun bullets or shells or whatever the hell they call
them in movies. Shotgun shells shotgun shells shotgun shells shotgun
shells shotgun shells shotgun shells shotgun shells shotgun shells
shotgun shells shogtun shells shotgun shells shotgun shells shotgun
shells shotgun shells. Doesn't make sense.
Everything exists in a whirlpool of pretentious sentences.
Then the flash people come dressed in white with hard lenses on their
fingertips waiting for the perfect moment. This girl I know tried to
tell them once that every moment is a perfect moment to somebody, but
they shut her down with a tax audit in September. Disillusional focal
points dotted symmetrically along the spine of all the books on the
shelf. I'm holding on. There are patterns in everything. Tiny mice make
smoke signals on their scale and we pretend we'll live forever. My
pillow is made of stone and thistle.
And Iím becoming tired.
Lie in a swimming pool on a black dark warm day while she gently hums
Listen to breathing.
Smell the freshly cut lawn and hear the lawnmower three houses away.
Feel the gentle water lollop you up and down ever so slightly.