the life
not a normal situation. a stranger to become stranger. walking past moon lit foyers belonging to business i'll never shop. yelling dogs and barking wives. the bars just let out their captives, it's not a sitiation that should be over done. the things that i am waiting for are much like four teen girls on a road trip. somone is there that is waiting to break the mood. there is the one that is wanting to have only fun. there is the thinker and there is the one that wants nothing more to do than to get ahold of her lover. in a compact car they move down the 101 in my mind to a warmer climate.
there is something wrong though.
the thinker's knee hurts, but she can't sit up front cause the one
pining her lover always gets her way. needless to say, she wanted to sit in the front. the fun haver is in a subliminal blinding state watching out the window for the landscapes to change. though it seems overbearing it suits her, she owns the car. and the driver is the one that can make anyone feel like there are cinder blocks weighing on their shoulders with just a stare. the driver and the fun haver have been friends since birth, or so it seems. but if you look closer to the scenario. if you look closer at the temperments. at the attitudes and stereotype movements. all the habits peculiar to all these given individuals, you'll see something. something invisibly thick between the thinker and the fun haver. it is thick as crayon wax and warm as cat skin. everyone knows it and they all compete with it in silent warring ways. not belligerent, not bizarre, it's made them a little brainsick and hard to focus better on what good they have. instead they dream of what good they could be having.
it goes on forever, all of this does.
and so it goes, the doors creak open silent in some homes, but in other houses the wives have set their ears to suspicion. they plan to eradicated the remains of their husbands. like i mean to say: the husbands become dried tree trunks. admonished from the room for weeks, and this goes on and on 'til the record wares through the back side, ruining not only one song but two.
the imagery of this beautiful county sings deep. falsity memories every corner, but i know the truths. nights i swore my mothers grave that i was sleeping. i, in actual fact, heard all the conversations and i kept a well printed ledger. i cross in who i will keep and i cross out who will no longer keep to me. recording transactions important and not important.
i take another step, this time with my right foot and another thought crosses my mind. the moon lit foyer is still to my left and the dogs keeps yelling the mothers keep barking. in their speach it is silent yet vulgar, at the disgust of the husbands drunkenness. as all the men try to silent their wives they lose ground quick. with every unintelligible word steaming with the lung warmth and stench of alcohol. she lays in bed thinking what fun it's not to be married to such a man given over to his simple idiosyncrasy.
and the car keeps tumbeling down the road to warmer beaches, each gal preforms their tasks more quiet with every hour they crawl down the map. getting closer with every millimeter to where they want to be. the radio gets quiet by the sixth hour and they drive strait to the promise land. nothing is said to the point of breaking into conversation by lenghts exceding thirty seconds. still one by one they glance at each other and smirk. the warm mouths, the soft upper lips, it feels like home nowhere else. the onset of a later stage the headlights are beacons on the highway.
what movie like life i live in my head, and i've only gone two steps.
there is something wrong though.
the thinker's knee hurts, but she can't sit up front cause the one
pining her lover always gets her way. needless to say, she wanted to sit in the front. the fun haver is in a subliminal blinding state watching out the window for the landscapes to change. though it seems overbearing it suits her, she owns the car. and the driver is the one that can make anyone feel like there are cinder blocks weighing on their shoulders with just a stare. the driver and the fun haver have been friends since birth, or so it seems. but if you look closer to the scenario. if you look closer at the temperments. at the attitudes and stereotype movements. all the habits peculiar to all these given individuals, you'll see something. something invisibly thick between the thinker and the fun haver. it is thick as crayon wax and warm as cat skin. everyone knows it and they all compete with it in silent warring ways. not belligerent, not bizarre, it's made them a little brainsick and hard to focus better on what good they have. instead they dream of what good they could be having.
it goes on forever, all of this does.
and so it goes, the doors creak open silent in some homes, but in other houses the wives have set their ears to suspicion. they plan to eradicated the remains of their husbands. like i mean to say: the husbands become dried tree trunks. admonished from the room for weeks, and this goes on and on 'til the record wares through the back side, ruining not only one song but two.
the imagery of this beautiful county sings deep. falsity memories every corner, but i know the truths. nights i swore my mothers grave that i was sleeping. i, in actual fact, heard all the conversations and i kept a well printed ledger. i cross in who i will keep and i cross out who will no longer keep to me. recording transactions important and not important.
i take another step, this time with my right foot and another thought crosses my mind. the moon lit foyer is still to my left and the dogs keeps yelling the mothers keep barking. in their speach it is silent yet vulgar, at the disgust of the husbands drunkenness. as all the men try to silent their wives they lose ground quick. with every unintelligible word steaming with the lung warmth and stench of alcohol. she lays in bed thinking what fun it's not to be married to such a man given over to his simple idiosyncrasy.
and the car keeps tumbeling down the road to warmer beaches, each gal preforms their tasks more quiet with every hour they crawl down the map. getting closer with every millimeter to where they want to be. the radio gets quiet by the sixth hour and they drive strait to the promise land. nothing is said to the point of breaking into conversation by lenghts exceding thirty seconds. still one by one they glance at each other and smirk. the warm mouths, the soft upper lips, it feels like home nowhere else. the onset of a later stage the headlights are beacons on the highway.
what movie like life i live in my head, and i've only gone two steps.