thoughts when walking down the perfect christmas lane of upper-middle class houses with victorian street-lights, and a muzak of in the imaginary elevator: we don't need no water, let the ******* burn, burn ******* burn.*

to associate old age with wisdom, instead of a coward's:
you wouldn't hit a man wearing glasses in the face,
would you? (no, but i'd make a pizza of it down papa hannibal's).
although it makes me allow the debates
of platonic perceptions and disparities,
for then youth is slaughtered
upon the altar of rising house prices,
rich old men stealing possible mates,
youth becomes easily disposed of
ready for warring in a square of
the battlefield without any corners...
old age has nothing to do with wisdom,
it simply appears like it's wise,
but it allows its own mistakes to
be replicated... if wisdom doesn't arise
from youth, then youth is simply
that segment of society that can be easily
duped... the middle always wins...
they provide the friction fiction of movies...
e.g. a well established journalist
with a secure job, a home, a family
becomes undermined, loses something...
then the fiction begins... oh the tragedy...
kids' yachting lessons will disappear...
touch the soft spot, i'm about to turn into
a mollusk and burp NaClCO2... salty breath...
me? all i have to lose is a certain number of books
and a few compact disks of the trendy 80s consumerism;
ye ha! and jimmy savile ended up old and wise
with a grave that was consecrated with theft for recycled marble!
**** out! someone is about to seal-clap
the righteous ***-**** when embracing mickey mouse
for the tourists' picture of a family holiday,
and then it's all **** a doris for the turkey fat dribbles
to keep the sabbath tradition of the 100m sprint
on escalators.