(no subject)
When he saw her she was running down the stairs, just like Christmas morning. Her interesting self, the whole thing, even the clothes, was moving like anything ever did, like water flowing over a silver spoon on the day of. I think he knew, because she looked like she did. Like perfect understanding.
I wish it all started this way, but really it started with Stonehenge. It was inside those stones that he found what he was looking for: looking for.
I think you get it. Stop avoiding knowing and know.
So he was the little boy, little penisboy playing with himself, in the best possible house of the small Springsteen John 3:16 Mellencamp. The hated songs on the hated radio, and the pizza-spattered shirt smell of dishwash. Blah blah bleah. Instead of thinking that this was all real and could go somewhere, he thought it was him, it was wrong.
The boy come in the front door into the divers downs family in which every perfect catalog picture made Woman's World magazine in place of Time. All the fair bills to be payed, all understood as the only way. The loving figures were people too, but hidden inside their statues status mamama dadada.
Brother small grows overlarge, makes the penis small, makes the muscles weak. Life does the same, everything is nothing now with reaching out towards some otherwise. Always reaching into nothing in the desert, in the endless, the endless, the endless
He thinks. This is bad and while all the big smelly black gryphon books make him into something useless, the seed grows in his testicles. This was the reason for everything, not art and symbols but fuckfuckfuck. This was the bad and the hate grow.
Everything on his plate was disgusting. Please sir can I have something else? You stupid don't read those kinds of books.
I wish it all started this way, but really it started with Stonehenge. It was inside those stones that he found what he was looking for: looking for.
I think you get it. Stop avoiding knowing and know.
So he was the little boy, little penisboy playing with himself, in the best possible house of the small Springsteen John 3:16 Mellencamp. The hated songs on the hated radio, and the pizza-spattered shirt smell of dishwash. Blah blah bleah. Instead of thinking that this was all real and could go somewhere, he thought it was him, it was wrong.
The boy come in the front door into the divers downs family in which every perfect catalog picture made Woman's World magazine in place of Time. All the fair bills to be payed, all understood as the only way. The loving figures were people too, but hidden inside their statues status mamama dadada.
Brother small grows overlarge, makes the penis small, makes the muscles weak. Life does the same, everything is nothing now with reaching out towards some otherwise. Always reaching into nothing in the desert, in the endless, the endless, the endless
He thinks. This is bad and while all the big smelly black gryphon books make him into something useless, the seed grows in his testicles. This was the reason for everything, not art and symbols but fuckfuckfuck. This was the bad and the hate grow.
Everything on his plate was disgusting. Please sir can I have something else? You stupid don't read those kinds of books.