The derelict parade.
I'm already spitting on my grave as these verbosities stream forth through my teeth; they help me sleep at night, they are all I've got. I am running right now, very fast, some would say hyperdrive, but not that fast, Spock has my fingers keyed.
This is a sit back time, a sit back and relax time; yet I am fucking frantic. The "fucking" was for effect, do excuse the foul language. This is a point, one of which you reach when you look at the sky in a chemical daze to realise that it is not only the (most beautiful thing) (salvation) (big fucking blue thing) (sky), and nothing more. Take a draw, hold in, tense for effect; and then clear your lungs of all of the liquid poison and resin you may be witholding to see the clearview world of the mentally defunct. - This is not a ripe story, this is not new, it is used and supported by my anti-it's-been-fucking-said propagation. Let's use the letter "I" some more, for effect; I'll be a solipsist for now, not so much a sophist, my spin is off key.
Freud would have my misogynistic children by now if I let on about that, let's clear path and stray from that gaze. The stupor sets in, motor functions in check, mental hold withstanding; there is no escape from this iron fist as long as I am in charge and check of the liquified juices chewing at my spinal column.
Suss me out, come on, you know you want to; the trainwreck of which you look and cannot stop at; I'll compare and boast to all of my friends about you voyeuristic fucks enjoying my sadsap apathy rants about cognitive motions under an influence. That's all you want, that's all you'll get; but that's okay, I'm already past the point of the motions to which I would care about doing the mundane, over and over again until I pass out.
Fuck me. Just do it, I couldn't care less for your self esteem, I couldn't care less for your image, just do it and get it the fuck over with; I would.
Make a trade, work for pleasure, ranted about that enough to night with Thunderthighs, she probably has a name, but it escapes me right now; nice girl, you should validate her sad existence, even if it's goal based. Base yourself on my destination, the yellow brick road unto your yellowstained drawers, it'll be keen, promise; stay still, take it, take a draw, hold it in, tense, for effect - You'll be great, take a teaspoon of concrete, harden the fuck up. Etc.
Fluroescent shit; it'll happen, as long as it's not pushed, you'll be high, hiiiigh hopes, we've got, hiiigh hopes, you're insane, you're fucking insane. No curves, it's straight, but you're insane; just don't pull it out anymore. There's a friend, he's a good friend, the magistrate will rip his hallucionogenned body to fucking shreds; the poor bastard. I still love him, don't we all?
A tout le monde? Yeah, it happens, you guys are great to me, and I'll return the favour by not working in a deep dark hole to support those rascal capitalistic fatcats with their love supreme. It's far too easy to succumb to those words trickling off those pretty lips, you can't say no, you'll never say no; if you fuck it up, jump ship like we all do and live in that quandry where there'll be a six month drought and we'll all forget about it sipping our collective fish and laughing the fucking night away.
Peachy fucking keen is what I call it; a collusive social convention of the truly derelict; no google dictionary for that one, clod; but hey, what can you do. I can't believe I fucking updated this piece of shit to share my addled mind with the lookers; but hey, everyone dies inside sometimes, especially when I fuck your trophy that's still encased in that stillfast gold cabinet, must I repeat the mantra of "man the fuck up"? Of course not, it's old, tired as I, not as impotent, but it's trying it's ass off; leper outcast unclean, that's where this is headed, as I look at my raging manhood trying to lap itself up onto this wonderful keyboard as my skillfull fingers clickety-clack for their lives.
Why was the penis not designed with knuckles? Worming your way through the vaginal cavity would be such fun, such ecstacy, more than the ones I would never take; find your home, make your place, clear the way and fill what's yours, burst forth from your tiny gonads and create more impotent life to succumb to the raids and riches of a system failed.
What else is there to do? Nothing, why bother? I get my pleasure, you get yours, you all seeing eye, this is where the mind is, this is where the happiness in, your omniescence sets me on edge, but please indulge in the mind and matters of a brain gone wrong. I don't feel it inside, especially not at my nerve column; I should... Forty dollars, four packs of cigarettes, three bags of goon, food for one and a half weeks, I've blown my wad, it happens, she doesn't care, missie fate, I don't blame her; I gave up too; we all give up sometimes.
What's left? The ardour, the guile, the abasement towards what life is; followed by the sharp sting of the nonchalance to what is mundane, and therefore irrevoccable without the suited care; effort be damned, this is now.
Fight it and surface. Take a fucking breath.
This is a sit back time, a sit back and relax time; yet I am fucking frantic. The "fucking" was for effect, do excuse the foul language. This is a point, one of which you reach when you look at the sky in a chemical daze to realise that it is not only the (most beautiful thing) (salvation) (big fucking blue thing) (sky), and nothing more. Take a draw, hold in, tense for effect; and then clear your lungs of all of the liquid poison and resin you may be witholding to see the clearview world of the mentally defunct. - This is not a ripe story, this is not new, it is used and supported by my anti-it's-been-fucking-said propagation. Let's use the letter "I" some more, for effect; I'll be a solipsist for now, not so much a sophist, my spin is off key.
Freud would have my misogynistic children by now if I let on about that, let's clear path and stray from that gaze. The stupor sets in, motor functions in check, mental hold withstanding; there is no escape from this iron fist as long as I am in charge and check of the liquified juices chewing at my spinal column.
Suss me out, come on, you know you want to; the trainwreck of which you look and cannot stop at; I'll compare and boast to all of my friends about you voyeuristic fucks enjoying my sadsap apathy rants about cognitive motions under an influence. That's all you want, that's all you'll get; but that's okay, I'm already past the point of the motions to which I would care about doing the mundane, over and over again until I pass out.
Fuck me. Just do it, I couldn't care less for your self esteem, I couldn't care less for your image, just do it and get it the fuck over with; I would.
Make a trade, work for pleasure, ranted about that enough to night with Thunderthighs, she probably has a name, but it escapes me right now; nice girl, you should validate her sad existence, even if it's goal based. Base yourself on my destination, the yellow brick road unto your yellowstained drawers, it'll be keen, promise; stay still, take it, take a draw, hold it in, tense, for effect - You'll be great, take a teaspoon of concrete, harden the fuck up. Etc.
Fluroescent shit; it'll happen, as long as it's not pushed, you'll be high, hiiiigh hopes, we've got, hiiigh hopes, you're insane, you're fucking insane. No curves, it's straight, but you're insane; just don't pull it out anymore. There's a friend, he's a good friend, the magistrate will rip his hallucionogenned body to fucking shreds; the poor bastard. I still love him, don't we all?
A tout le monde? Yeah, it happens, you guys are great to me, and I'll return the favour by not working in a deep dark hole to support those rascal capitalistic fatcats with their love supreme. It's far too easy to succumb to those words trickling off those pretty lips, you can't say no, you'll never say no; if you fuck it up, jump ship like we all do and live in that quandry where there'll be a six month drought and we'll all forget about it sipping our collective fish and laughing the fucking night away.
Peachy fucking keen is what I call it; a collusive social convention of the truly derelict; no google dictionary for that one, clod; but hey, what can you do. I can't believe I fucking updated this piece of shit to share my addled mind with the lookers; but hey, everyone dies inside sometimes, especially when I fuck your trophy that's still encased in that stillfast gold cabinet, must I repeat the mantra of "man the fuck up"? Of course not, it's old, tired as I, not as impotent, but it's trying it's ass off; leper outcast unclean, that's where this is headed, as I look at my raging manhood trying to lap itself up onto this wonderful keyboard as my skillfull fingers clickety-clack for their lives.
Why was the penis not designed with knuckles? Worming your way through the vaginal cavity would be such fun, such ecstacy, more than the ones I would never take; find your home, make your place, clear the way and fill what's yours, burst forth from your tiny gonads and create more impotent life to succumb to the raids and riches of a system failed.
What else is there to do? Nothing, why bother? I get my pleasure, you get yours, you all seeing eye, this is where the mind is, this is where the happiness in, your omniescence sets me on edge, but please indulge in the mind and matters of a brain gone wrong. I don't feel it inside, especially not at my nerve column; I should... Forty dollars, four packs of cigarettes, three bags of goon, food for one and a half weeks, I've blown my wad, it happens, she doesn't care, missie fate, I don't blame her; I gave up too; we all give up sometimes.
What's left? The ardour, the guile, the abasement towards what life is; followed by the sharp sting of the nonchalance to what is mundane, and therefore irrevoccable without the suited care; effort be damned, this is now.
Fight it and surface. Take a fucking breath.