i must have been high
Steffon Haaby, Jul 05, 2007
This is one of those times of life when it all really seems irrelevant. To me or you or somebody who may be watching the transgression of seasonal shifting like the falling leaves from the dreamscape field of memories. Lost long ago into a secret place by the waterside in your own vision of love's lost journey into your forbidden places. Heart, soul, mind, conscious being is not to be and nothing happening is a practice in stagnancy. So far we have gotten as though there were a topic of discussion to be sticking to. Like penstrokes in a margin, mixing clever banter with light hearted wit can make for a fun afternoon in the life of a schizophrenic earthworm; roaming through rain thinking of dirtnaps and beds under ground at least six feet in diameter. To really get a good measure of your own field of convoluted memories; you really have to try this cake when you rant on meaninglessly. Practice for the shallow is like competition for the weak and unsure, just spinning phrases until one finally appeals. Right? Sure, I mean eventually when you finish wading through crap you are bound to get to soil. What I mean is, everything is all right. That is to say I am not paying attention to anything so it is all quite fine with me. Isn�t it sadly funny how backward your fantasies are in the forward moving future? Like sifting through faded memories on freshly dyed grass in a field of romantic fancy which gets lots yet again in the contempt for self and disregard for others. Mixing powerfully to crush your ego and boost your confidence of my own malicious deviant pleasures; of course derived from watching you writhe in perfect inertia through thickening waves of ESP or nightvision. Hairballs creeping up from a sewage pipe in the middle of the Sahara like a girl I knew once, loved twice, forgot in a day, and remember once a week. When it occurs to me to give two bits of hell or the whole lot of it if I could just borrow that first inch, the mile would be yours. Consider it charity from a miser of a bastard. In this reality you can forget to dream and simply bypass imagination. You just need coffee, television, and a steady job, this is adulthood. Now lets watch that bunny fade with stoic cynicism. Your cowboy days end and you cowboy the fuck up to deal with what was dealt you. have no gratitude after all it wasn�t your sin he died for, did you place the kiss? Three times you will deny me. Which is just as well in the end, I tire of this relationship anyhow, so let�s have a beer. We will sit together one last time before we cease to be acquainted, for on this night, I die. Oh! My love, how I have longed for this moment for so long! I yearn for the betrayal, for it is all that is true in a world of liars, thieves, and falsified democracy. Undocumented fear and hatred set you blind like the berserker rage in a lycanthropic nightmare built by the dream weaver. Maybe this will get you through yet another night. It will be to little avail, I still awake to a shaft of quick pain and a rush of dulled senses. In fact, I try this as often as possible. By the way, when you see Santa up there, tell him he has stiffed me for sixteen years in a row and this coal is going to make terrific kindling for his beloved workshop. All I ever wanted was a tugboat, a toy truck, and some yarn. This is the thanks I get for years of support; keeping the habit fed, yet thin, just enough to get through the year. Cold front coming in kiddies, best stay in where you can play in the fire and read your favorite French avante garde trash romance novel. Fabio is a beautiful painting and such a fabulous icon of filth and muscle bound closet homosexuality, jilted ex partner to seigfried. Fear of tigers ended the relationship, or perhaps the love for burlesque shows in the twinkling sprinkles of twilight the mad man grows wearing and the creator of sleep movies hangs thirty pound sand bags from this pen wielding fool�s eyes.
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Come morning the sand will be gone.
Yet the bags always remain.
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