This Post Is A Pipe.
Pull back on the lever. Breathe. Release. The spring compacts and the balls jostles forward, playing out simplistic karmic design across the multitude of flashing lights and rubber bumpers. It's all noise and flashing lights until the ball goes down, like we all go down. You left the evidence out for the cops to find, and now you're going down. You said you'd do anything for me, and now you're going down. You tried to find a button to push in the elevator, and now you're going down.
Deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper. Into the moist red center of the strawberry jelly donut. Deeper and deeper. Past the grating sugar crystals along the outside. Past the doughy lining, thick like fat flesh. Past the bonds between matter, past the atomic structure, past the past and into the sink. Down the sink and through the pipes and emerge somewhere deep underground or deep underwater or better yet emerge as smoke and steam and a sense of misplaced belonging. Sleep with the wolves and wake up without arms or legs. Don't fret - it's just a scratch. You'll be right as rain by brunch-time.
"A drunk leans into the room and asks me how much they pay me to fuck that typewriter. I collapse to the floor in a pool of blood and spunk, neither of which were mine. This apartment isn't even where I live. This is an alternate dimension I stumbled into when I ate that yogurt that I found in the back of the fridge. This is that dream I had when I bonked my head on the wall in gym class, 9th grade. This is a sentence spelt which words which are made up of letters. This is not a pipe."
I found that all written on a note that I picked up off the ground yesterday. I think I was in the park, or maybe I was up that alley not far from where I work. I stop in a lot of places, and I pick up a lot of things. Friends and bad habits mostly, but I'll be damned if I can tell the difference between them.
Deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper. Into the moist red center of the strawberry jelly donut. Deeper and deeper. Past the grating sugar crystals along the outside. Past the doughy lining, thick like fat flesh. Past the bonds between matter, past the atomic structure, past the past and into the sink. Down the sink and through the pipes and emerge somewhere deep underground or deep underwater or better yet emerge as smoke and steam and a sense of misplaced belonging. Sleep with the wolves and wake up without arms or legs. Don't fret - it's just a scratch. You'll be right as rain by brunch-time.
"A drunk leans into the room and asks me how much they pay me to fuck that typewriter. I collapse to the floor in a pool of blood and spunk, neither of which were mine. This apartment isn't even where I live. This is an alternate dimension I stumbled into when I ate that yogurt that I found in the back of the fridge. This is that dream I had when I bonked my head on the wall in gym class, 9th grade. This is a sentence spelt which words which are made up of letters. This is not a pipe."
I found that all written on a note that I picked up off the ground yesterday. I think I was in the park, or maybe I was up that alley not far from where I work. I stop in a lot of places, and I pick up a lot of things. Friends and bad habits mostly, but I'll be damned if I can tell the difference between them.