My World...
My world seethes, writhes under a big wet blanket. It sizzles and cracks and flips around to peer directly into the future. It has to look forward, no choice at all in the matter. If it didn't, it would not withstand the the forces grappling at it's ankles. My world is a foot path for fate to play out it's dirty sex scene in the grass. My world is a punk rock show for an ant farm, because really, I might as well be playing to noone. My world scrapes it's knee like a three year old. Only the three year old deals with it better. It's a package of clothing enclosed in rope with the tattered edges hanging out. There is no streamline. Fate has grass stains on it's knees and I have sucked the life out of it's balls and it's dripping down my throat. I lie in wait, for fate to shake me awake.
It pulls me close under the cover of dark, sneaks it's hands down my pants and fucks me, fills me up and sucks me. I've stepped onto another train. I took that little plank over to the other side. Still moving at full throttle. This is my world. Rotation.
I cry oyster shells, those fucking salty oyster shells. Hell on your hands. Noone should talk to me unless they've cleaned a whole stainless steel sink full of fucking mussels, fuzzy, rock covered mussels. Why wouldn't I have contempt. I slave over a sink full of mussels while the beautiful ones sit and for some reason know what to do with a mussel in their mouth. All I know how to do is clean then cook the little bastard shell creatures. If you try and assault the beard out of a mussel, do you know what it does? It responds. Retracts like my world from all the silly things I see, back up into itself, into a shell, a womb, a home, They don't want you to have their beard. Strong little fucking things, they have this muscle, it's like a tongue twirl, twirl, twirling around.
My world shape shifts every single day. It's colorful and anxietous, it's not sure and very fucking sure. It's so confident and then meek. It's sexy and gross and dirty and clean. It's dogs and fences and beer, it's twisting tongues and vulgar raw senses, it's peeling a fucking scab off my knee, it's whiskey in my tea, my world is riding me.
It pulls me close under the cover of dark, sneaks it's hands down my pants and fucks me, fills me up and sucks me. I've stepped onto another train. I took that little plank over to the other side. Still moving at full throttle. This is my world. Rotation.
I cry oyster shells, those fucking salty oyster shells. Hell on your hands. Noone should talk to me unless they've cleaned a whole stainless steel sink full of fucking mussels, fuzzy, rock covered mussels. Why wouldn't I have contempt. I slave over a sink full of mussels while the beautiful ones sit and for some reason know what to do with a mussel in their mouth. All I know how to do is clean then cook the little bastard shell creatures. If you try and assault the beard out of a mussel, do you know what it does? It responds. Retracts like my world from all the silly things I see, back up into itself, into a shell, a womb, a home, They don't want you to have their beard. Strong little fucking things, they have this muscle, it's like a tongue twirl, twirl, twirling around.
My world shape shifts every single day. It's colorful and anxietous, it's not sure and very fucking sure. It's so confident and then meek. It's sexy and gross and dirty and clean. It's dogs and fences and beer, it's twisting tongues and vulgar raw senses, it's peeling a fucking scab off my knee, it's whiskey in my tea, my world is riding me.
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