Light them twice as there are two of them sitting there just begging for it. Nicotine bazookas bumping for anti-health priority, but don’t worry, they’ll both be smoked, launched and smiled at while writhing hard on asphalt thereafter. How electric, I’ll stare twice at this point on the wall. Meaning: I’ll leave the second time that eye contact is broken, pivoting eyeballs singing setting interactive and sonorous it sings black. Stop staring. What be you looking at? I’ll close in faster than light allows, so just turn it off. In black, fetal fears flurry like fire but don’t forget that you can’t see it, be it and burn twice as bright, twice as fast and be the longest gap in between god’s brick wall of teeth, the largest statement screaming cream hard like life depends on it and it does as doves stop signifying peace, become crows, and skedaddle to harass spelunkers. Let’s make this fun so you can drop your jaw, but don’t forget that the sound of it falling is slower than the wall closing in.
Try shutting your eyes faster than possible, but generally, horrible doesn’t wait for anyone probable, even god’s cavity. But look here, there’s transmission incoming that sounds like someone’s coming to help and they’re near bearing weapons for self defense and density’s longest, largest defiance mirror. This way, the wall can only approach itself and be left shattered instead of causing some arbitrary hell. Seriously, this is the man of anyone’s dreams, even if you, as I do, generally dream of women, it’s a supposition meant to be broken twice like these two now dead cigarettes stomped out outside still sprouting the ephemera of smoke. It still hisses, but the volume is being decreased ever after.
They say it’s the oral fixation that keeps people on this addiction, mine is also the aural and there’s nothing like that sound, like listening to sex is sometimes better than watching. There must be some firm believer in this somewhere, but meet him and he’ll tell you he’ll give his hearing to be able to see it. Still bitter and bitten off more than he can chew because he had never felt it. But smoldering senses are no match for logical malfunction, really, they’re the flame discarding sanity and making sure to blame the action containers, stealing perspective and discarding the mistaken eyes of woe nowhere to be found. Sleep in fatigues because hiding from grief reading is the new world’s way of saying you’re in to the club formed by jagged destruction and script raptures that glitter like toasters that just sprung up toast. Mostly to be devoured slowly, and tirelessly invoking clandestine symptoms that spell out mystery. So add this to itself and repeat, world length connives now to stupor engagement and its nap time comes in the form of a flagrant vagrant leaning against a wall out of fear of the pavement beneath him. Maybe it’s hovering time, maybe it’s time to overturn unnatural fears, but he probably thinks he should be a bird perched indefinitely. A gargoyle in his past life saw misery. Speaking of symmetry, life comes to those with leather backs coupling with soviet backpackers immune to current events. Now who’s afraid of coming down? Maybe suicidals is a misnomer, too, jumpers finally facing their fear of the ground in the most powerful way possible. If they survive, there’s nothing stopping them from walking except for, probably, the self evident cripple-ness inherent in the breaking of the legs upon landing.
Wheel ahead ahoy!
Stagger steps expelling some majesty rhythms to deploy followers trying to flower misanthropic cathartic towers shelling out ivory in double, triple, quadruple doses grinning back at lists ever increasing in length just to occupy space. Wasp aces littering the sidewalk like the spelling bee had just got out, last day of school style, meanwhile messengers vigilant scrambled like clean-up-this litterbugs looking for muggers and their invertible residues of sadness maddening the ridiculous to insanity. Monitor the powerless, they know only word enough to ask for help and follow orders of leaders seeking remedies to not having enough influence and not yet having created paradise.
My slice of heaven involves breaking walls with hope and collecting their pieces while crashing cymbals together lovingly. Honestly, I just have no idea how to personify myself, and at great length, focus escapes the trap I set for it. Hence this. Spit my image to become your tongue prosthesis and then lay low, larder loves leaving lions lame, lethargic and turned into velcro like life, sticky, but not overwhelming. And when it’s the latter, it peels like skin overdue for some rind experience, flesh still succulent, and bleeding an orange into cigarette vitamin substitution, this is my illusion and it knows how to starve me. Rip softness from the fingers, engage them with difficulty, spread the misery, and what’s left is sunrise summing up what point of view really is: Fiction calling the world flat. Splitting the mental system to perspectives still all powerful enough to spiral out, then back in, a top enacting the potential of creation but accomplishing nothing. Supple tongues lie this way, rippling minds die this way, nipple clasps love this fucking way.
Strap on a helmet and start. Jungle gyms settle the mind to something resembling thickness, and the omelette outcome is fluffy, too, like serendipity scrambling eggs to induce bonding. How emotional. Waddle here and bring your mirror, watch yourself because your reflection is free and there’s a lesson in jeopardy of being lost. Blossom. Squeeze the mind into tapestry, because only then will the woven tales of lore emanate with the beauty that evokes recognition, niches wishing missions observed them in style.
The moral is sunglasses.