I sit and take a singing pill in the middle of Earth and witness these people scream at my great and decidedly kaleidoscopic divide – whilst the other sky stands terrifically respectable, upright and righteously erect
Haven’t we all been seeing all of these misshapen things before and at another focal point wherein softer people fail to cry by the curvature of an over-elongated eye see a rattle-snake shake it’s bare-naked skin
Paid for by way of their perfectly imperfect portrayal
And this is our parallel and peripheral vision twisted and tweeted colloquially midst – one of an unkindly kind it seems to appear to be
This is starting to feel a little bit as though these makeshift masks are miserly and treacherously mistaken for someone else – asking themselves to be wrapped right by our shrieking-faced portrayal
No way in and neither a way out from under here, no venture gained the less and lesser said of anything – about to be bed-ridden with eagle-eyed awareness again
Lose all of your irreversible time and we begin to creep-crawl like vigilante spiders near the shrieking ceiling
A pill to steer us creatively clear
I turn the telly on again and again and begin to sit and sin one millisecond at a magnified minute, and there appears to be a paedophile child carrying shy shy time – adulterous by all accords of which
Wide-screen reality screens scream sweet sweet kisses of Californian contagion
Which way do we go from here to be there though, and I will have to lean in and whisper and wish to ask you this final contrived thing, but are you fully and fantastically prepared to do something that nobody insane has ever really truly done with themselves before?
Sprint from the scene of the unrealised crime while everyone else has been watching the pretty little icing-caked surface of that widescreen telly again
Vomiting all over the floor, addicted to whichever comes first – the bed or the eagle-eyed re-awareness
Go on, do it for yourself – save glorious face and kiss me when you are ready because I am still fucking sitting here whilst I wait with weapons for knitting fingers
We were supposed to lead a bohemian existence, when all that we ever lead are broken dreams
Photograph yourself until it makes sense of itself, you jet-lagged imbecile
Can we please begin to be infantile and impervious to all of this? I am hoping for you to call the truth for what it is… whilst I remind myself to catch that other sky as I start to stand terrifically respectable, upright and righteously erect again – why does your face make less than less sense

 

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