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Hammer and Tackle
28 June 2011 00:46Hammer and tackle, sickle and tongs, national anthem genocide songs.
Find a mate who’s healthy and symmetrical. Find pheromones that seem to complement your own. I’m lost in the recesses of primary school. My addiction is diction. I’ve thrown my jackets down over so many puddles that I don’t even wear them anymore. This is a sunset jungle walk through a Viagra commercial.
Poverty is one letter away from poetry, they say. V for peace and victory or, if in Britain, V for fuck off. I think that works perfectly. I am a ravenclaw writing desk writing pithy editorial commentary on a quidditch match that no one will read. I am a blue lantern offering hope to green lanterns to steer the path to victory. I am a non-ciliated tegument as old as the horseshoe crab drinking La Fin Du Monde, watching District 8 ½ dreaming of Ladyhawkes playing ladyhockey.
You don’t become who you are until who you think you are is worn away by time. Here I stand in a train station bathroom, waiting for applause and hearing only sirens. I get an image of God holding both of my arms saying “Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself.” and laughing.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Picard my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, then raise the Shields, for goodness sake.
tags
Find a mate who’s healthy and symmetrical. Find pheromones that seem to complement your own. I’m lost in the recesses of primary school. My addiction is diction. I’ve thrown my jackets down over so many puddles that I don’t even wear them anymore. This is a sunset jungle walk through a Viagra commercial.
Poverty is one letter away from poetry, they say. V for peace and victory or, if in Britain, V for fuck off. I think that works perfectly. I am a ravenclaw writing desk writing pithy editorial commentary on a quidditch match that no one will read. I am a blue lantern offering hope to green lanterns to steer the path to victory. I am a non-ciliated tegument as old as the horseshoe crab drinking La Fin Du Monde, watching District 8 ½ dreaming of Ladyhawkes playing ladyhockey.
You don’t become who you are until who you think you are is worn away by time. Here I stand in a train station bathroom, waiting for applause and hearing only sirens. I get an image of God holding both of my arms saying “Quit hitting yourself. Quit hitting yourself.” and laughing.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray Picard my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, then raise the Shields, for goodness sake.
tags