Unprocessed raw material. You're not a finished product. All that will be left is decaying flesh. You lack mental acuity. Resented the imposition. We both love to bicker, a theater of the absurd. We use to amuse ourselves before the boredom settled in. The useless dregs of small talk. But the hectoring got dull. I've moved on to Cock and ball torture. These dirty streets are outpouring. Patrolled by Gigolos and Juggalos. You've idolized these immaterial assclowns. Because it's very shallow in the pit of the stomach. We're eligible, waiting in line. Awaiting the grandiloquence. But you don't believe, hope springs eternal. Save your fucking money. You only fool it away. Avant-garde musicians are polymaths, take a fucking bow. Your omniscient demeanor is done coercively. At the expense of your targeted, impressionable audience. They became intimate then their hearts shattered. It's troubling when you proclaim. You sold out when you had the chance. Life is hard, you can't keep living off the grid. Where have all the (scumbag) cowboys gone? They're taking shots at the Dew Drop Inn. That's par for the course that you keep trucking on. What the hell are you thinking? I will never comprehend, your sad justification. High Noon meditation. I'll walk a country mile back to the concrete jungle.
Created: Apr 02, 2012maltesefalcon Document Media