There’s a bowling ball coming straight from Hell and it’s coming at 11:00 PM at night. Right down the main drag of what used to be everywhere. But now of course is what’s left of nowhere. All we can do is dream. ‘We’, the most deceptive term of the twenty-first century. I thin better standing up then leaning on the flat of my back. If there wasn’t a ‘we’ and only an ‘I’, then think what fun the two of us might still be having. But some limp dick worrywart saddled us with these inconvenient notion that we have to keep the home fires burning and fuck the dry powder. What ever happened to the notion of the therapeutic value of a good fuck? Something that used to be mutually beneficial back when people had manners and didn’t have to put their dirty laundry around town to enjoy a fleeting, “told you so”, thrill. Sick Gay Nigger Jew indentured bastards, all unable to explicitly state their name and condition for the benefit of the vain hope of a miracle cure. “They’re singing songs of love nut not for me”, or you, or anyone else, but themselves. That then that ever comely varnished great big pussy goddess that is been reputed to exist that holds sway over the rest of us worthless children with comatose sardine breath. Suck it in, suck it up, “On your knees flipper!” If you can’t read my words, it’s because the computer automatically changes them.
When is the last time you howled at the moon? I’m safe now with my fat belly for company. There is no self-love left. Just the lingering shadow of that person that I one day hoped to be but I could never get a handles on. What to expect when you scrub your off the shelf identity with Irish Spring or Dial soap? Squat down and have another child , don’t worry it’s on the house along with another free smart phone. Keep moving you up there way in the front. Life is a conveyor belt of mostly unsold wishes. The best one’s never get on the market and the worst one’s become the everyday tale of our broken vapid existences,. No, I struck out a long time ago to find paradise and just became a fossil hunter. Happiness does not exist in the present tense or the future but perpetually in the recollection of the past. The big anonymous they who everybody knows on sight but whose name that nobody dares to mention. We’re only let out on Sunday’s for good behavior.