Friday, 23 October 2009

Funny World #6

Well what do you know. Basically, my head is a bit fucked and it appears that I've shaven half of my face off.

That bloody, crooked fortune teller was right. Though he never mentioned the secret that everybody knows.

I've got a good mind to give him a gentlemanly shake of his hand then spit on his coat tails.

A sly devil grin crept across my face, not dissimilar to that of her ashtray timing. The wind has changed direction.

My function now is to not be forgotten.

I've revealed myself now, brought it into the present tense without a care for caution. This is simple in theory.

He knocked at the door with a slight canter of the knuckles. Jake Stiletto and his San Francisco drawl.

Hello, and I need a cigarette, he said, like a viscous liquid clinging on fingers.

Last night I dreamt I couldn’t find the composure to write my name, I dreamt about the shade of blue I can't see anymore, and with heavy limbs like bridges, I just couldn't swing.
There's no joke, but I think I'm laughing anyway.
The thought of ripping that fucking pasty from his supercilious fingers and breaking all the lovely white pegs in his mouth is making me smile. Perhaps this is the joke that has since alluded me.
Just let me know when you're ready to love me.
You're a dick.
And you're a cunt.
And I like swear words.
This will make you bolt like a whore, I said.
He walked past me and looked blankly at nothing.
I'm going to stay here for a few days I murmured. He knew that I had cried this morning at the state of my life.
Twenty roast knuckle bones and a damp cheek. The pain in my neck is terrific. It seems the taste is not so sweet. Wooden man with a limited yet malleable expression, please don't tell me what your knowledge consists of.
I can't seem to get her off of my skin. I've been looking at photos of chairs all day, which is proving to be a tiring infatuation, but I'm feeling pretty good about myself. I can feel it coming out of my forehead like crushed garlic.
My wooden hands were itching. Sticking my tongue in the skag bag whilst sitting on my own playing pass the karma watching my jagged reflection become increasingly withdrawn, it became clear that I didn't know what was happening.
We sit down in a circular motion and pretend not to look at each other.
This is a brighter shade of real, I thought, that could easily break at the slightest of touches.

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