Hey could you just fuck off ignorant villager? I’d rather not feel your glares and stares and your pitchfork fears. The rumble of terror that resides in those globules you call the soul windows. Shock-faced gawky standstill visage holding steady on my heady tic ticking brown betty. Anxiety on my mind making carousel swift jerks and leers, twitchy J. Fox turn turn head in unknown rhythm, repetitive obsessive twirly dance of schism.
Uncomfortable in skin so I desert, zone out fall out riding on the reverb. Echo your motions but I feelin’ so inert, butt hurt, introvert recluse must look pervert. Speaking in my mind soliloquies so eloquent, monkey mouth silent, speak no feelings. Candy curse saga ragga pom pom jagga – nada, fadda, allstar Carta. Magna Hova spitshine raisin in the sun.
Sicky sick flows of jacket schizos. More in common than the judgy milk toast status quo. Caboodle on ma noodle need a little bit o’ cuddle, muddle mine temper and awaken temperance.
So rude so jealous so envious of success. I screwed the needle and wound up istack. Pre mature, post hack, single solitude in art and I ain’t the best in that. Tesla of the inks and coils, too much praise may be spoilt. Try enough for bare minimum, procrastinate the muse’s goal, mediocra infinitum. Deluge in the escapism, the naught haughty media party, games and frames of pretty picture pixalism. 2K 4K, double down on monitors, monitor the displays, display port the tech savvy.
Wrapped up in the resolution, paltry palm me desolution, hand to mouth Intel gents recompense for arrogance. Now I’ve lost and can’t commence, lost the flow and temperance, lost the lady luck’s elegance, I’ve gone and drowned my sentiment and drunk away my penitence.
And if I feel so moody low and have a fit and bawdy show, may I return with afterglow and be the hit of aftershow. I’ll be the primadonna hence and act the queen of burly burlesque, down the fears with Absolut, be a pretty pearl in suit. Maybe I’ll like the femme descent, all comely and lithely gents, perhaps I know not whence I went and delude in what others have dreamt. I cannot be the belle du jour, the sunny funny merriment. I’m not the mistress of the night I couldn’t live up to the one that night. The french madame whose cheek I kissed and laid my hands upon her wrists to thank her for ending the listlessness. I’m struck with respect for them dames who hang it all for cheers and fame. Salute the bygone phallic gun, the lost boys have place in the sun.