The Carpenter of Commonplace
“Men, says an old Greek maxim, are tormented by the opinions they have of things, not by the things themselves."
- Michel De Montaigne
All hail! the broken wings of a pelican, the tying of a string to your mustache, and a strap of these facts, tight up against the caboose of a jet engine waiting for an airplane to commandeer. This comes with a price for the infrantry & commander disrobing before the sight of an underpriviliged liberal: "who else must we wait for to waste our fortunes? Shots of loads all over our careers! They'll crap into the mouths of our disguise - they'll share with us women birthing only the patience in pestilence of despise!"
Perhaps, we commence - but have you ever thought to yourself as to who may be the only one to blame? Who wrapped the baby bottles in the hand sanitizer and called it sweet cheeks while peeping though the keyhole for the legally impaired? - Was that you? Was gold in higher grade wages when left by the chimney of a Christian sympathy?
Have the interests played both sides and are the worthless running out on you? Who made such the worthless? Was it always so worthless to get involved? Were the emotions still as worthless when you got up on top of the worthless who were made most worthless because they never held any worth to you?
How's your handgun,
is the trigger comforting?
I think you'll find that all the roses you've been waiting on have all but suddenly wilted; your funeral in the rearview mirror of a broken down luxury sedan you'll never find luxury within - you know this, freedom is what's bothered you. Or is that another silly comment coupled and augmented by the sights of another misdirected misinterpretation of the point you just happened to stick by this whole time, despite the ground pounding & irrelevance?
No? So was the pace of anger taken and, too late as it was found, that this was all that anger takes - pace.
All this masquerading around was set in sway because a father couldn't keep a dose within a prick and a mother couldn't help but bend from the belly over: and until it was you.
The moment a father snapped, a mother abandoned, a father left, and a child was wrapped, childless, chippering about,"Mother, Dear." oh! "Father, Dear." - How one hates to say "Dear" nowadays. So what is dear? - The elk crosses the road and the midnight crisis shoves it's way through the creatures sternum, now buckling under all of creations weight, bursting from both ends, entirely expended is the expendable... and now you're a child again; a child in a man's most helpless body, but with almost a brain.
The Unfortunate You, you say! - though never admitting, except for when in fenzy, that your are in fact the Godling forgotten. What trappings of the native eye you react with while demanding to trade with the winds of some genius in able tug job fashion. Here you go - ah glory, hallelujah! - it's coming to town:
you're finally in the open waters.
You've got a spear but you've
jammed the barrel.
"The serpents on you!
Primordial husk, we wane,
sweet dusk to dust!"
There is another
joke here
waiting to be set for the punch.
The clock punched, listens:
"You're funnier when
pronouncing how democracy is dead in
a country where
cats can play the piano and
your mother can leave home without
a stone spunging free the
panorama of her brain."
