Friday, 30 October 2009

Funny World #8

Today I sat in a tree filled with honey-yellow smiles. There I contemplated serenely with crossed legs and linear desires.
Everyone needs a place of retreat. It's all white noise up here, where I finish off these sketches of the longest connecting wire ever seen. Do you by any chance have a rubber, please, thank you.
The estimated time is three seconds. Silver, golden rectangle, metallic with my name on it, laying docile with all the intelligence ever needed to exist, I'll be floating around somewhere metaphysical, transcending time and space only to end up exactly where I am, two feet wired.
This is the majority of the life-time pie chart.
Little green fly, I killed you because you lied to me fifty seven percent of the time. Now there's an estimated three seconds remaining. Begin.
This mote of dust and a flake of skin is all that it takes to leave me like this. Point the camera, and push me in. Don't move, just smile. You didn't know, but I gazed at memories of you last night, pretending it was three seconds ago. I need three seconds more, but I'm not sure where to get them from.
Paper mountains are tight around my ankles, and I don't think they'll tear.
Do we always have to be synonymous with ourselves? A recurring definition that waits only to prepare for the next three seconds?
So what have we done?
I woke up on her kitchen floor at three o'clock in the afternoon, with a three minute sunlight preview, dinner plates and no inspiration. This has all come to a stand still, and all I can do is stand still. I'm jumping off the carousel and running home, only coming back when some normality has been wedged into my head. I'll leave it out for you to find somewhere. I'll know when it's finished.
Sometimes the world just throws up a colour that you don't recognise, and you have to deal with it, it is the realisation that you are more or less an idea, and nothing else. Give me some fucking words to eat before my feathers fall to the floor, with a digestive system filled with air.
My little May fower, we are mostly vestigial.
Surreal away.
I'm opening myself. Now this social door that never had a handle, has been left ajar. This existential architrave has unmasked what my aesthetic declined to show. I can see your tiny toes poking through, but from the questions you ask, I don't know who you are. Stop asking, please, don't stop asking.
Evaporate my brain because my eyes are raining. You have a calming face that I don't like to see on anything but the sky.

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