Hours melt like butter on a warm peace of toast which at one point was bread and with that said I am well fed up down and all around with this sick human fantasy that what we do doesn't implicate the actions of others I saw the butterfly effect and that movie about sliding glass doors which reminded me of the patterns found on bowling alley floors which shows up in a strange nightmarish way when you put the black light on but say did you hear or did you say something about the news i hate to verify so please do not tell me lies I'm gullible but it makes me lovable I was once a blond but now I'm just dirty godless and a heathen so basically though I'm still breathing I'm apparently dead inside because on my Sunday I don't reside shackled inside a building built by man to house the sheep and the Shepperd who leads this flock professing the word that was again written by man but not just one several hands grasped the pen pad and computer screen to translate and divulge the inner meanings of a collection of fables involving people living in fish which to me sounds a bit of double
entendre but my mind is consistently in the gutter which brings me back to butter and my last tango in Paris and it was armistice day so pin that flower to your chest and pray for those who lay rest but only when in the public eye constantly cross-eyed staring back at itself but never seeing anything to keep the believing masses in line lets just add some more cameras outlaw crimes a hedge and we need to trim the leaves before it stops resembling the elephant in the back of the room sitting on our chest where we keep the dinette set for the finest of guests who never come no occasion deserving so the meat loaf never finds its way to the serving platter but soon enough the condom breaks and we were the
pitter patter of our eager replacement so train them well and give them hell god forbid they don't end up as fucked up as you are.
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