a touching story of ungrateful velcro skulled boy, with his tored-off face, puts a life-sized sacked marionette he'd thought looked an awful lot like him, with his time told and mildewed baby clothes of a business man. jerk, wackoff slumped, and he's tired, sick with bad posturing. one can't hold in. oh hell, there's a king of jungle in him. give our young lad middle of america's valise, but spare the gauze, he's losing poet by the gallon. glory, glory, bottom of the quicksand's gonna give him a whole lot less to think about, than change that steel trap perspective would, perhaps... i've been living in a record skipped filmstriiip. i'm falling off the side of the boat and when i hit water, i am falling off the side of the boat. i fall asleep hoping tomorrow tastes like poems and honeysuckle. i move slow 'cause the sky looks bluer when you fuck the order of the day or the way the shelves were meant to fit. i wish i had a pair of stilts to wear while i played the flute in some light-traffic corner in my old high school. but these are only pleas to thy seated self. maybe spain is the open-faced smile from some life i saw in a movie, and always thought i'd live.
