What lies between my index finger and the middle one. Hungry, your panties twist in agitation and fury. Her pale skin as frail as the full moon. Glimmering twilight in the indoor shade of velvet symmetry. Neon billboards, the city skyline heaves strong toxic odor coming up from a raw sewage underground. Rotting infrastructure, don't lie to me. I've spent countless hours dwindling pointlessly in the false pedestrian pavilion. (in reference to the wicker people: circus thermometer as well):also: Check Pillow Talk, "A Significant Survey".
An era of bad timing increases exponentially in the domestic maid arena. I'm a helpless emigrant that is not inspired by Plymouth Rock in it's Neptune of chaotic transformation. You who have read Stephen Hawking, go Fuck yourself, and you who believe in the Mayans, work on your elementary vocabulary after school. It is intelligent people who do not aspire to work for a living and collect food stamps.
Gasoline and all it has to offer in alcoholic suburbia. An afternoon strip mall that is conveniently designed to meet the needs you do not naturally require. Dry cleaning, embalming fluid, pizza, and bring your 5-piece fried chicken family to the neighborhood mall. We'll all visit the flashing arcade. We'll pump quarters into the pinball machines, I'll hit on your fifteen year old daughter. She's got to learn sometime, it might as hell be now, and you are not going to stop me. You hate your life. You work forty hours a week, driving a stupid station wagon to work. You drink beer on Sundays in front of the television while your stomach gets fatter and uglier. You don't even love your wife. You hate her more and more every day because you can't stand the fact that she married you. What in the hell is wrong with you anyway? You followed directions your whole life, now all you have to show for it is a festering tumor full of resentments, and a miserable household full of sons and daughters who are already boiling in defiance because you raised them.
Simmering down towards the end of the long week outside, amidst an assembly of assorted trees. It's even too pleasantly cool for mosquitoes. Towards evening, we have a nice talk over the patio furniture about how we are so happy we never had kids. You pure me another margarita out of the shaker, I add, "easy on the sour mix honey, too much gives me heartburn". I drink seventeen margaritas, you sip two of them. Towards the end of the night I'm so miserably drunk I think it a great idea to walk up on the roof and shout obscenities at cars and people strolling by. One of our neighbors calls the police. I wake up in jail for public drunkenness, and a minor case of simple assault. For what I do not know.
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