Age does no one any favours
So why not refuse it?
Why not denounce your saviour
As sound and music?
For the end promises nothing more than hate
And bitter, ornate grapes
Forced onto cascading tongues with tape
What encumbered apes we are
To drive our cars
Into the stalls of beauty
Thinking they are complete
While we are replete
With that hollow feeling
Frothing, frothing

True hacks and phonies all around, speaking through their ivory horns of pure disgust and wallowing in incompetence, ******* and kissing and mishandling their newborn children which they name in propriety and for the pearls of God that allow them to **** and **** well. I will blast them all to the deepest of hell for there they belong with me and they will be outrightly ****** by the sojourning sheiks that give their sufferers a razor-tipped ******* that they know they deserve. Where is your relatable, so enjoyable, three or four piece family TV meal that you so deeply craved after a long day at work? It is gone gone gone and now you are subject to your deepest incongruities with yourself, how dare you be such a bother and how dare you believe in your ability to inspire. If you are not feeling this frustration of never ceaselessly being able to grasp at the story that lies within the easel of the juices of your soul, then you are not- and never will be- worth anything more than some broken throbbing piece of genitalia that seethes and suckles at the broken fallacies of pure love and distraught youth. You do not know and you will never know, and if you dare you will never truly make progress for you are a vacuous, insufferable, erratic dame that is not a good piece of skin so much as you are the perfect tool for everyone: a loudspeaker stripped naked and bare for all the world to ****; a true contributor, unlike your deepest and most esteemed of peers. Aww, how does that feel? How does it feel to finally implode from your own vicarious and hollow attempts at wisdom and knowledge? What’s left to be learned has been learned, don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Don’t you think it’s time to stop digging your ***** ***** nails into that rusted cloud of old hope and forgiveness? Everyone has left, and that is what we must deal with. You must be some mongrel to sit down like an unrepentant dog. Cross-legged and all.

In stepwise manners, the decision is made just as the cyan sun pierces through the overcast. The cavalcade of mercurial leaves pass under the handle of my plastic chin. They are borne on the temporal gust of youth which had made its yearly return. My little heart is astounded, immersed in love’s vicarious changes without ever feeling or seeing the flesh. I listen for the chimes that bellow deeply and conspicuously through the plateau shifts. Now, towers are houses and the world is a golf ball; just as meaningful as one, too. Rest, the flakes will not stop cutting into your shoelaced skin. If there is protest in the air, perhaps you are its pilot. Believe in the haze that separates you from those you wish to touch. Crowley’s charms, planetary rings, lamplight halos make a bed that screams “float” eternally. Perplexed and flying through my own inquisitions. Within these past odd minutes, I am intimate with the world’s vein yet again.

My shadow is as authentic as my flesh. Under the deep cover of the day, it comes out to play, mimicking me in such a ragged manner. At times, it is ahead of me, as if its automation is one premeditated dance. Other times, I feel as if it has given me the reigns, through no request of my own. It is so faithful to my identity that it may as well be independent. Why shouldn't it be? Detractors would call me foolhardy with my whims. They would say, "Oh, but where does it go at night? Little child, where has your friend gone?"
What villains these people are. Of course, the shadow must rest from the pains of this earth; from the sight of mongrels like them. Every shadow has the right to fear the aged and the gnarled; their eyes domineering over every present pebble beneath their feet. It is as if they spit on their homes. I would burn the world twice over to protect my shadow. His own realm must be something of a sanctuary, or a holy womb. It ought to be my duty to protect the last vestiges of nascent, naïve innocence.

Mother, I hope that finally caught your attention. I know you are busy, so I will make the upcoming statement as brief as possible. If you cannot be bothered to understand an ounce of wit, and I know you will not, then it should be my duty to make this very transparent. Forgive the plainness of my speech. It is, after all, the most you can handle. This must be quite the task for the likes of you. Make of this what you can:

I'd like to insert a bullet into my head, upon yours and father's bed.
I would like both of you to see it, I would enjoy your aural dread.

In life, we all need a kick every now and then, I find.

A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.