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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 along.

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.

Weightless.

Floating.

Drifting.

Nothing.

THE ARCHIVES OF PAIN

I am so fucking happy I can beat myself with a stick
Sticks: Is there anything they can't do?
Argh. I'm fucking hungry and I can't walk
All I have in life are tazos and a massive collection of disease inducing condoms.


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