A slap in the face to wake me up. What the luck was that? Who is to say, in which real– we give and live away, said Yore, Lord strike me dead on the spot should we have fused so imminently into the realest scene. I know exactly what you mean. You’re, said Yore, my heroic genie anti-hero.
Happily choo chewing along, concentric radar rings radio’d nothing, my broken compass, needle pointed and cross stitched a pedalling meddle into my deen. Then, whoosh. All of a sudden, there you are. Like Tony springing from behind the bushes. A glowing bogey. Ephemeral emerald green.
You’ve taken the breath from my body. And stilled the day. I am on pause. Deathing the dream. Invoking the analytics of parley. But you won’t let me speak. A sliver of a ribbon of me, knotted into concrete beaks, pushing me to drown in the cold, heavy, sea.
Be my guide of light, fix my broken bodied kite, lead me away from false suicide. I feel like. A musical statue without notes to walk. Guitar solo without string. Bee with no sting. Voice with no sing. So I just talk, and you glisten.
I lose my trail of consciousness but you know what is coming. Predicting and shifting your lithe snake-like melted chocolate way through my brain derived of marble cake. I reject your admission request to invade, so my mind plays fickle and your crescent face plagues my vision peripheral instead.
Your spirit knocked me out, winded and wounded, I picked my heart up off the floor and attempted to revert to normal breathing namecalling oxymoron more. I choke on contrition and the process inverted, spluttering, fireball consumed and converted, there’s a drought. Catatonic. I stand oddly, standardly, feeling all gawky shy and awkwardly. I didn’t expect you, to be.
Ja, as in rule, as in do and a modicum of south asian voodoo. Some kinda meta magic, trapped by genetics. Stimulating lexicography is my secret pornography as I engage with frantic semantics and unlimited stereophonics crush limited characteristics: Believe me, you are not generic.