Some doors lead to brick walls.
Do you think there are a few tulips that grow amongst the weeds in purgatory. This small hell.. or is it all leaking paint tins. I try again and again to console this arrhythmic beating heart only to receive a skinned overstretched drum. Dinted by society trying to fugue hail and say whoa. Look at that massive chip on my shoulder. We are all little fighter fish swing against the tide without a shoal, wresting against a subliminal lea of a single rock, with the non existent tide or perfect storm. Only the tiny plastic castle and reverberations of the zoo like taping, little earthquakes, sound nothing like a quartet or cymbals a myriad of interactions and dictions of burr, defibrillator for the harmonic peace. crystal clear, filter, you light up my life like no one else, delighted lighting.
How perplexing it must be without text in an aquatic universe. Ehhhhhhhhhhhh.
Why is it that I feel this way? I find it quite intriguing. Why does my heart want to manifest itself like the Tardis outside my body into the air I breathe? Ha, Columbus for Columbine…. mmm.. no. Well in a manner of speaking. I haven’t yet expelled my heart through my mouth. That is yet to come, physically to touch it. I see it rise and fall, To climb up my ribs like a man without North, clumsily, a drunkard, detached from a crawlspace, monkeying along dispatched himself the the vertical plain, or horizon of my throat, strike my vocals to lock down the precinct from the inside out. For what purpose? -only to extract, strip the form from the inside of my mouth…. Incapable of holding capillaries captive. Anchor them shut. Surpassing the master. leaving fleshy wounds, bleeding, from the upheaval. Hmm strange. ah.