Funny World #12

I've been inside this cigarette now for two days trying to find myself.

The man situated approximately three feet in front of me is most definitely a myth. The girl in front looks over her shoulder with sultry eyes apropos nothing. This is a manqué mimeses that fails on all fronts to incite or interest. Why am I becoming increasingly nostalgic for paranoia? A fear of contentment when it turns out you're just a little mop.

"Death." I say in response to a question I didn't hear. "I'm waiting for this fucker to light."

My momentum is waning like an emersion tank full of rust. I fill my pockets with a plagiarist's playground and the very universe that fell out of her eyes. I'll haul you up that fucking mountain again whilst you whisper in my ear "die Sisyphus, die".

Looking through the lens of my medium format eyes I start to see things differently. "Do you live on cardigan road?", I hear in my sugar lump. I fully expect these surroundings to ignite as soon as the music stops, disintegrating this esoteric surrealism that everyone shares.

Everyone's brain fits in their head. This is a simple fact that almost always goes unnoticed.

This music isn't going to stop. I am becoming a similar consistency to pink wafers whilst acclimatising to these prawn cracker curtains. Senses are increased with a tint of rose.

This silken finger is draping my spine. I touch her face, every meander of the fingertip like an interview. I loosen the motion.

Thinking about the throws of your contours and the dip of your physical nature, tachycardia takes hold. Am I getting to know you correctly?

The Andy Warhol look-a-like with a face of graphite hasn't said a word since I arrived. Please Andy, whilst the cheese is on, give me some advice. "If the novelty is good enough we will give it a carrier bag."

My clothes feel like an extra layer of skin and cream, a warm trifle. Can you feel the knife?

Although the chain is rusting and the process of ecdysis is reaching conclusion, I must confess that you are still composing me.

I just froze for no reason and felt confused.

"What are you thinking?" I hope it is interesting enough.

Then an idea fell from my sandwich and landed on my knees.

"You're just a dirty turkey." it said.

I held the sandwich tightly and stared at it as it stared back unremittingly with a benign expression.

I can see the blue crack encircling me. My throat is a wrecked ball of itch stuck in my epiglottis.

Give me more time Miss Blue. Give me three seconds more.

Why does late night t.v give me the gall to reminisce when it's the last thing I want to do.

We have grown into a personification of radio waves and television static trees.

I could see her in the distance so I stood my ground and she disappeared. Smoking a crack pipe at a fairground or was it a children's toy?

I shook hands with a clown doused in black make-up and made way into the sodden woods.

"Stop it with this bleeding stop frame!"

"Why are you scared of the rain? you are not made of sugar".

The idea on my knees made me insurmountably aware of the fact that I didn't know seven eights of this room.

My brain is ten per cent functional and ninety percent garden.

My sense of reality just made a lovely splash, and our reflections undulate with the carp.

At this moment I'm not thinking too much about thinking.

I hope this is interesting enough.

I am staring at shadows secreted from the floor. After my jaunt I can safely begin to presume that you, yourself, are almost, most definitely, in all honesty, beginning to be secreted from my tiffy viewers.

A few seconds later I won't even recognise your face.

"Believe me. To make someone not think about anything is an achievement. Isn't it this blissful inertia that comforts us the most?"

Now the monkey comes out of the sleeve.

Rapture.

Can you feel the knife? It was a spoon, lifting us to a strawberry moon and a village in someone's arm, where we swear in diseases, the girls wear sock puppets and you can slap my soul without reprieve.

Punch the bitch in the face to put the bitch in her place. I can take a kick in the groin and a punch to the foramen magnum, but these fucking dreams keep showing me vloer snow flakes.

A blinding, pathetic wash of images. I need to go home and think about Ginsberg's cottage.

I hope this is interesting enough.