"I thought you'd give me more?" He asked tiredly. Unsurprisingly, no one answered him.
Albino bag smiles tell me that you're angry.
I wish I was on a boat projector of galaxies, floating moving atoms evoking ages of sand and marble in your ancient rolling temples.
It has to feel like this. Smiles times two. "Please, it's mine, but I hope you enjoy it."
To this day it still clicks like a broken clock, and reminds me of you. You're probably not the massive cunt that I imagined you to be. I suppose you're just seeing things the way I am.
Now I've built a cave, I can see how obviously recurring these events have been.
Good morning, irrelevance, and how are you? oh, and you, the typical nature of the present? I see that you're eternally turning up unannounced, maybe you can knock next time?
The muffled sounds of the knuckle trumpeter traverse through half an hour of waking dreams.
Nine dimensional reverb, this is what I couldn't explain to the backs of heads.
But it's alright, no one thinks that existence is important anyway. I think this is why I've resorted to believing my own pseudo-pink wafer-justifications.
I look up to see the male figure smiling down on me. I can only see him from the shoulders up. Wearing a white tshirt, stubbled chin like freshly cut gravel and illustrious hair like a golden-brown tsunami.
This is the first time I realised that God was Jack Kerouac.
"Come up here." He urged.
"I can't remember how long my limbs are." I replied disappointedly.
"It's ok. I'll help you up."
I found it humbling that to reach this 'transcendental dimension' I had to climb over a sink and a frail cupboard filled with mugs, passing polaroids of people I knew on the way.
When I reached the zenith, Jack Kerouac had vanished.
"Where's Jack gone?" I asked.
"Oh, he got a taxi about an hour ago, he's got work at nine."
"Ah shit, does he know he's left his coat?"
"Yeah, he text me asking if I could save it for him."
If you lick the chin of Salvador Dali, you can sit in the left temporal lobe of Indiana Jones.
We are all in a two foot space making heads horizontal, surrounded by cushions and a cardboard television with lots of wires but no remote.
95 percent eyes and 5 percent leg holds aloft an infinite curtain rail that she refers to as 'the force'.
The wooden drug dealer with a phobia of fire, cuts his stuff on his square wooden legs. "It's ok, as long as I can listen to Johnny Cash, 'Ring of fire, then I'll be fine" He informed. Which seems entirely logical.
"How much for your legs sir?" I politely solicited.
He continued to butter the ceiling of the temporal lobe with an invisible knife. "Nothing, my friend. I'm a butter sculpture."
"Your legs are like two comfy staples." Said 95 percent eyes and 5 percent leg.
Inky blue eyes gives me a black parcel filled with ineligible messages. It is not until after I leave that I realise this parcel already belonged to me.
Nehe Miah Clifford, I only need to see you when time relapses like a lunar tide. Kinks the tape. Noises repeat and continue as normal.
I only need to see you when time relapses like a lunar tide. Kinks the tape. Noises repeat and continue as normal.
I had a dream last night that I shit orange liquid into my hands. Nehe Miah Clifford, you know exactly what this means don't you, because this part wasn't real.
"The roof is itching three plates at a time."
Nehe Miah Clifford, you know exactly what this means don't you, because you are me, and I'm not real.
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