globe

March 1 2012

I wonder if dessicated coconut, the bags,the shredded kind ever feels empty and overpowered and just ergh,yaknow?Empty and shallow, its not like they are mallow white and fluffy clouds. Empty, dessicated. People just like to shake the shit out of you they just camt seem to fucking help themselves. Its like little pillow bag typed cemented coconut located inside. Its like a sign listing ‘wet paint’ curious fingers…. Not even glitter,or switched up with a glamorous little plastic snowy world, that goes up and down. – Yet remains a pleasure. I’ve yet to see a street fire in one of those or a single frown or white flag of surrender. Bliss. 

Think I’d like to live in the globe, of polyurethane – flexiglobe Rain buttons, music and colour dress my mannequins. And be a real day tripper, seasons in glitter.

 
This would be for the better, with lovers, friends, both dead and living.. Nothing is the same Sun through the week… My cells remember, the webing between my fingers are tired and alone, and I hear myself, If you locate this return to sender. Free to wonder. Discard, infected,infared. Obscene. Often not where I am meant to be. Always thought would I be there.
 
 
Yes definatily a flexiglob city with cement pigs, gnomes, sunflowers, gaudi architecture smiley cog clock tower and marble tiny house centre. One of those dippy birds with the tuxed0 hats, Ashy Dash and all the friends he needs, Robots, boot maker, This would make me ok, smile. Fly. Id fuckin fix Icarus. Dammit There would be Jam Tomorrow.
 
I think I would need to be held tight I think, or do. Eh, saying its my fault only goes so far. Like seasons, or blades of grass. I know everyone knows Im on the yellow bus… Im still fuckin really sorry and fucking naive and a let down, smiling bubble blowing fool. Im not from this planet. I should do more, your so fucking kind, you know that, genuine, your all going to turn and runway with your kites of freedom. I’ve let you down. – ha not the first time. I’ll sign my name with a shot of resignation in whisky. My soul isnt strong, maybe like when I was like 3 young and fucking uncoordinated and dumb.
 
Box my face, cant remember her, or trace a face. Blah. I want to hold you to fight the fear that grows like Ivy and seems to dictate all my body.
 
I want to be immune . Fight you all.. All I do. tomorrow is wrong.
 
Giving into bed. Please let into sleep. – Trucks and Mattresses? Dream you.
 
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