Gluttonous FrictionMature

It’s oh so significant, this garbage laden sidewalk, the clean ones are the ones to watch out for, and I, while taking slow step after step am only frightened when I don’t hear the crunch of the dead underneath, because this means that someone has been there before, someone has cleared the path for themselves and left this marker, like the lack of the stench of urine, someone was here, and if I change it to be more comfortable, they’ll know I was there, time to turn around and look for another way. Breaking through isn’t an option, but seizing destructive concentration is, like Sisyphus running back for his boulder failure after failure, lie after lie. It’s life of this kind that disacknowledges all others. 

All quiet on the loud front, all dangerous on the safe one.

So I’m paralyzed, sneezing perpetually, and no one is around to wipe my face as the snot just pours out. Steadily. The stream is the Nile, one of many life fronts drowned in excrement yet still used to irrigate crops, still spurring the play of single stringed violins monotonically yelling, “no, this isn’t the best place to set up camp, children have died here.” But the easier for me to cross their corpses, the easier for the Nile to form the Styx and.

Snaps were heard twice as I crunched down on fish shaped saline crackers in the passenger seat, “shotgun!” called successfully and my cravings would never cease, because my faith had long molten to the ground. 

And they’re not now: my lack of height precludes their center of gravity; I told you, they’re not now. 

Hold on with those navigation directions you want, and you need, I’m pulling Last Cracker out of the bag, and it knows I know it’s there because the penultimate had said, “you’ll be next, if he’s seen you, it’s already over.”

Glutton, you say. Freeloader? No. Opportunist. Peddler.

I would burn my lips together if you gave me the cigarette from yours, my tongue rancid enough to be the only thing needed to divine me a lick of your ice cream. Vanilla, chocolate, fuck it, I don’t care, my throat needs soothing, my taste buds need to taste. I’ve been lovable long enough to betray betrayal and gullible enough to crush cymbals together while using my big toe to point at the caged monkey not doing so.

You hope. 

Oh, and here’s gas money! I love you, thank you for dropping me off, I love you, I love you, I love you. Subconscious‘s messenger  says, “kill him before this seduction is complete and you are helpless, his wiles are so wily, Wile E. Coyote is in this comparison; and he knows wily.”

You see my shoulders, right? Like, my back, God’s gift; just like you are. But I know it better and for some reason, you believe me. And all I do is whine, complain, and now you love me. You want to know what the other gifts I’m endowed me with? My cock is between me and god, and luckily, the women I’ve fucked are in that place too. You, you’re not. You’re between a cock and a hard place, between firm sandals juggling balls clasped to the toes of a fire walker screaming a sigh and meaning, “meh, this is not hot enough.” 

If I flowed like water, I would flow like water, and luckily, I flow like water in a plastic bag drowning in the ocean, hoping that this thing wrapped around my head is, at the very least, of a suffocative quality.


The End

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