Babbles

We don’t all think, but unfortunately, we all are. Do you feel anxious when you hear someone sneeze too far away from you to say “bless you”? You could have saved them. I’ve got sores in my mouth and you look stunning today, commentary on sickness and consciousness, hooray!

Optimism is wasted on the prostitutes in all aspects, does anyone really ever change by the end? Delusion is evolution in one’s own head. You grow? Who grows? We end up as children who are simply dead. But then why do I waste this time in bed? Shouldn’t I work and tread to say what hasn’t been said? Instead I lay and work for unconscious lucidity, a waste of time for you, but not for me. Don’t you see the pride I invent for the sake of being lazy?

Flowers can be punk rock too, ask this Irish dame, she’ll tell you.
This is all an exercise for my fingers to maybe catch your eyes, this is all fiction, please question nothing, not worth mentioning this idle poisoning. I’ll hide some details with a purpose blind, or deaf perhaps, I forget my own lies; I’ll veil it all however I please, my gestures seems Roman, mythologize my deeds.
Artificial inquiries for the forward progression, but careful to mind the words of the literate premonition: ghostly spooks and lover too, picaresque tradition with a golden tooth.

Words are tricky things, ‘bang’ is good and bad? Babel’s still fucking us all in the ass.
Drawing characters on hands to scare attention to work, history is termed, educated and adored. Sit down in Paris and try to remember the globe, keep your questions short and only eat what you’ve grown: silly advice, perhaps out of place, but our idols are dead and we don’t belong in space. Can we not be gods and beasts on our own turf, doing what we need? I gave my own wrists to Satan’s crew, someone might find love in my blood so blue. They tell you a heart is a candy shape, in reality it’s an organ with disgusting tapes of confessions of process, of minute detail, you are hideous on the inside, male or female.

This world is a network of bricks and winds, current stigmata are treated like beestings, by flowers, dandelions, for real, believe what I say, my words can heal. The fabric of a city is sewn to death, there are a few strands left, use them for your health. Actors must tire of fiction in veins, they undress their lives, an address in Spain, décor like a whore with tangerine fingertips, fucked up colors paint a relationship.

Nudist writers sit at my feet, radio voices golden like fresh wheat. Helicopters interrupt gay pride education, sons beget someone, it’s a strange situation. Gender roles boil down to studious penetration, queens are frogs who read out of desperation.

Pieces of mirror and lentils replacing all these buildings made of metal, I now see myself and avoid healthy food, starving self portrait because I’m in the mood. Apples and cigarettes are a diet for few, not this man beside me, shamefully depicting Jews. A rabbi on the page is a balance you can’t keep, don’t fear me though, I’m awfully meek, though I still reflect what I can of myself throughout this city of numb disrespect.

This notion of totality bounces off of me, vicious thirsty community never leaving my poor feet. I hardly hear your words, the cement is listening, I do my best, but do mind my beestings.