The end is oh so sweet.
We're telling the story as they see it.
As they want to hear it.
To take it in.
They try to adopt it.
And we spiel on. Speak and spiel and ramble. A sad story never told but never heard. And never listened to.
Our deaf concert. Our gouged eyed gallery.
Ours but silent.
Ours but deficient.
Ours but just for us.
As we twirl down and around this silly path together, one tiptoe behind the other.
You and me him and I.
The object and the thing.
This is me and we are it.
The object, slammed and squished down the plughole, by grotty fingers through a grimey grate. That is grateful. Because. And this is the real cuntfucker.
I am.
I exist.
I stain a stainless slab of green.
In an endless ocean of nightmares for those that have vision to see but are deaf enough to see. And
Now you have it
My heart in your hands.
And the beat is a rhythm for you to play.
So let the deconstructed Orchestra fill the room.
And let's allow.
Just this once.
The little boy to sing.