Lots of little leaves lend their thoughts through me, invasive, intricately they thwart thousands of flicking fluttering flapjacks that narrowly nest northwards in insightful intricacies. My own correlation to the devastation of my excommunication comes circling psychotically through territory taken by thieves. Listen to me. Me, the sea winding, crashing, lashing, smashing in the sand. Shells wash shamelessly ashore. Incoherent attitudes to the longitudes and latitudes of my bicameral mind melt biogenetically with generous gentrification and gratitude. Knights that know nothing note notorious faults with the mechanical bull bellowing ballads of Bart Simpson's big brained battles. Believing in a higher power that showers us with praise and rain and pain and flames is an astonishing attitude taken timelessly through history. Histories mysteries made matching the mourning Mormons march maddeningly on netted walkways wandering wirelessly in the digital age. Rage, sage, six billion constellations on one page, intuitive notions of nectarines and oranges that float directly through subconscious space into the place were the human race lost its face, bending backwards hopelessly heaving to find It. Us, the story of story of stories. Last but not least the golden fleece made by hand of the man who lost control of the audience blinking stupidly through the dim lighting in a Victorian era theater. Money makes men mad, women whistle tunes on the rocks as the clocks tick down to our collective doom eternity falsity. Lighting matches of the patches that reconnect the lashes lavishly lacerating loyal little people who dance dumbly and deftly as an affirmative acceleration of the Nation brings out the worst in us. Millions marching miraculously on nation capital investment in the predicted earnings of what we can sell to the horribly under educated balding obese men with learning disabilities due to the undisclosed demonstration of lack of nutrients needed to make more mean men smart. Lost at darts. Joan of Arc. Queen Diamond brings crime to silent Simon sitting on the dock of the bay. We waste away. Watching rivers rolling round the ******* bend that banishes blatant blasphemies of the self. Sea me sinking seemingly shrinking in the distance of your one good eye. Lost green waves washing worlds wary of the New Age. But in my head it can't be said any other way than the way it repeats and relapses and redirects my attention to it when I try to sleep and eat and drink and sweat and sigh and sing and slink. The twisting tangled thought that terrifies my tortured terrace (aka my also known as counterpart playing in the dark with lost fingers finding time to rhyme lines in the mosaic of my mind: my heart). But I'll just tell you later.
7/2/2014