no time for trusting me, no would touch me 'cause i don't have steady hands, or a bolted heavy stance. frantic and decoding glances, well, why aren't they, too, panicking? and the price for a coffee nowadays. and now in a daze... i do my palates on a pie plate. it's safe to be a saint today, i'm sad to say. ((i live here in butter ripple fantasy with poltergeists at shoulder height. they scrape my face with fear ON THE NIGHTLY). meanwhile at milk chocolate factory, the workers speak of daydream hairdos and prices they pay FOR THEIR VICES). split me open 'cause i got no guts and i drink too much and i talk too much and now i've said too much. i've said too much. mother, may i eat my mouth, mother, may i?
the last of the worthy thoughts are coasting to a stop. kind of wholly lonely, mostly going postal, slow groaning, slowly growing, go to hell. losing hair. losing interest. losing sleep. can you tell? nothing looks the same. re-paint. ok, i guess i get it: selfish times, selfish measures. whatever, paint it thick. OH! A Bonus?! GO HOME. Grin for Goodies?! FUCK, NO. and cancel this years' big reunion, (somehowijustthinknoneofthemaredyingtoseeyousorryhoney). got passive and stayed conventional. plenty of time to mull over the plenty of times you got cold shoulders. lost my little buoy. here's my neutral disappointment dance. we can all afford to avoid it. give me a new phrase and i'll coin it, and we'll all pay to ignore it. it's such a chore to think about it. so then, i guess i won't. watch me cut it off, now. SUCH A CHORE TO THINK ABOUT IT! i'll be in the clubhouse. i've got all this time to mull it over. well, well. don't dwell. cut it off! RIGHT NOW! okay. i'll be in the clubhouse.
it's ok. no, really, it's ok. just walk around me. although that's something that i'm used to it is one more for the pile. i lie to get away. rolled 3 of them, nothing came of them. i do want something to come of this. when? at least something candy-coated to show for this. what? when? what? when? what? my filthy plot is caught up coughing up imploding selfless thought. when? what? when? what? smoked 3 of them nothing to show for them. when? what? and all the while i look back to pile. when? ask: when the fuck...? what fucking happened? what? when? what? when? what? when? what? when? she left us crying about where we went wrong. it's the way it is/throw it on the pile. it's that slice of cake, (with glass baked inside). my insight says i'm down when i'm down i'm UP, no, i'm down. the people here, it kills them to smile, that's one more for the pile. my home is a birdhouse i don't grind my teeth for fun, it's automatic. i should have rolled 4.
do you think i'm cold heart-ed? well i inhabit a deepfreeze. i dwell in a fridge. i was raised in the tundra, baby, it's just my nature. oh, to be talking trash and thrashing, kicking cups off the coffee table. do you think it pleases me to keep chrysalids? it's for these reasons that i re-assess the samples. i do nibble on the pieces. little bits of a thesis are sneaking in through a personal jesus. my eyes are inside out, upside down, and filled with doubt. duplicate lines, sleep decay, dreaming past what i can say. i think looking back, spacious and ungrateful, must have been a mistake, oh well, refrigerate the past. concave view of the cave. i'm no sort of mine for diamonds. i'll mime the events that shaped me into such a complex. whitewash for tolerance, it was all self loathing gluttony any how, i've been mustering up some personal antibiotics for division, division, division. schism, schism, schism. slap on the dijon and call me uncle. my eyes are inside out, upside down, and filled with doubt. duplicate lines, sleep decay, dreaming past what i can say. enough of my muttering, my stuttering, i can make this buttery. a vision of division, division, schism, schism. "son, put some fucking skip in your step!". my eyes are inside out, upside down and filled with doubt. duplicate lines, sleep decay dreaming past what i can say. oh, to be talking trash and thrashing, kicking cups off the coffee table, i can make this buttery! slap on the dijon and call me uncle!
"2!"
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