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skonen_bladesApril 30/30
7/30
A three-shovel shitpile hangs heavy in the airship’s belly waiting for discovery’s anvil to come crashing through its entire meaning with a feather switch. I’m no angler but I know that means a business lunch in a bunny suit. “Wrangle this” my flock patterns will say. God damn. It’s too early on a weekday for this kind of century. I’ve got frog suits more weekended than this mess.
It’s the kind of book burning that your grandfather remembers with a smile. The sort of down home hoedown howdy that reminds you why rhinos have horns. I’ll take that magic marker and go own some Frisbees with it. You keep your spiders in jars, I’ll let mine parachute into Paraguay with nothing but topless eight-armed dancers on their mind. India forgive me because it’s going to get hot on this train in the horse car.
I like my burritos like I like my American toques. That means I like them beanie. You talk to my truth-taker like you’re confessing to a college prank. You killed people and now I’m the mop that has to clean it up. You can use that load of bread to dab up regrets on what’s left of your dinner plate. I’m going back for another tour of duty. I’ve hated your kind ever since I set foot here.
Too bad you’re inside me. I can’t be good to you but if I’m bad to you then I’m bad to myself.
I hope you choke on a crab. I hope I can high-road you to death. I really doubt it. I don’t know if that’s the you talking or my own amazing hold on reality’s greasy barber pole. I’m a fireman with oily hands and weak legs but I’m leaving the station to fight fire with sarcasm.
I have your best intersections at heart.
tags
7/30
A three-shovel shitpile hangs heavy in the airship’s belly waiting for discovery’s anvil to come crashing through its entire meaning with a feather switch. I’m no angler but I know that means a business lunch in a bunny suit. “Wrangle this” my flock patterns will say. God damn. It’s too early on a weekday for this kind of century. I’ve got frog suits more weekended than this mess.
It’s the kind of book burning that your grandfather remembers with a smile. The sort of down home hoedown howdy that reminds you why rhinos have horns. I’ll take that magic marker and go own some Frisbees with it. You keep your spiders in jars, I’ll let mine parachute into Paraguay with nothing but topless eight-armed dancers on their mind. India forgive me because it’s going to get hot on this train in the horse car.
I like my burritos like I like my American toques. That means I like them beanie. You talk to my truth-taker like you’re confessing to a college prank. You killed people and now I’m the mop that has to clean it up. You can use that load of bread to dab up regrets on what’s left of your dinner plate. I’m going back for another tour of duty. I’ve hated your kind ever since I set foot here.
Too bad you’re inside me. I can’t be good to you but if I’m bad to you then I’m bad to myself.
I hope you choke on a crab. I hope I can high-road you to death. I really doubt it. I don’t know if that’s the you talking or my own amazing hold on reality’s greasy barber pole. I’m a fireman with oily hands and weak legs but I’m leaving the station to fight fire with sarcasm.
I have your best intersections at heart.
tags