literature

Random Ramblings Of Madness II

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What is all this nonsense about being filled anyway. Like a rice cooker toppling over the window to the voice of the young girl I once saw carried by the orange breeze. I like it when it's in me but sometimes I resent it so I color it multirainbow and call it Bob. We can use them for our pleasure but enslavement only goes so far to upholster our couches like bright diamond kites floating in the water's surface, unbroken by the barks of the coyote that I once punched for telling a dirty joke. It called me a feminist.

So if I say fuck off, I really mean fuck me and you and everybody else for wearing those shoes that burn with the cold waves of math, science, and layered theory that somebody somewhere laid down because they had a lot of time on their hands that somebody laid at their feet and if the fireplace was a little bit warmer none of this would've taken place anyway. Like an abandoned bear rug in the middle of a forest where virgins were taken to live forever among the pomegranate trees and mossy old ladies with eyes in their hands. And when they reach out to shake you, you better run faster than you can because if you fall into the puddle, that's it, no more cupcakes for you and that pretentious dog, too.

If it's too short for you, then hell, you might as well take it upon yourself to bring a little pain into this bowl because we gotta fill it before the man comes back and hugs us for being who we are and not who we were. And if I wanna bake the cake then I damn well will frost it with snow because it needs a little sunshine in it's life.

AUGH! PAIN! But it's not really pain if there's nothing there to cause it. It's a red alarm which wails at the time and eats away at the monstrosity that is my mouth. I can't speak if I can't see, and I can't do time if I can't be convicted for a time I commit unwillingly. I'll kill a man and I'll beat a woman and I'll eat my words if it means I'll feel something other than my doings.
Please don't beat me with that eyelash. It's harder than it looks, and I fear that it will pierce my skull with its intentions. Do it again and I'll show you who's the boss of my mother, and you'll regret ever setting foot in this room.
Because this room is made of mush, and I eat jail cells for breakfast. Break down the logic and flush it down the toilet, for when we organize and label life into segments it's not worth living, only following and executing. At what point are we the computer, and not the computee? At what point are we the amputated, and not the amputee?

I think my guitars are secretly planning to kill me. Why else would they talk to each other at night, discussing mustard gas and my favorite hobbies. Then again, my favorite moments with them have always been discussing zombie plans and how I would never use them as weapons.
They're not the weapons, they're the attacking force behind my mind. They strike the audience with their voices and scream out to the dead, waking them with their piercing battle cries.
...They were planning to kill me for sure. The battle cries woke the dead and brought them upon me.
I'm using them as weapons.

Poop deck fancy cracker pants. I don't know what that was. It's going to be wonderful when the stick men fly down the fires with trench coats made from corn. Is this really how things will turn left? It stinks like mug dipped in owl eyes. The hairs from the Underwood I see prickle and sing the afternoon delight on a way that I could taste.

ICE! Can I have some apples to throw at the crows in the supermarket. He looks at the pancakes and screams in for the crimson dynamo that is a statue. It saunters across the river three days from the sunlight bouncing off the chrome ladder in the garage.

I try to see how one could start inside out of the pickles that one puts on a burger. I hate sliced pickles like they hate God. Mangoes on the other hand are pretty pink ponies that need wings to follow the stick men just above the monkeys throwing acorns.

I know they're good people when they like my underwear because really, it's called intimates for a reason. If you don't like the colors of my eyes then I guess I could pluck them out arranged across the silver platter that you call home so that the elk can sing a song for your lullaby on your return journey hope. And if you prefer them short then I guess I better leave because I refuse to stand tall for you in this icy gutter feeding on the scrap metal of the rich while the crows laugh their hee-haw cry from the top of the buildings while itching their heads necks and toes.

And if sheep crawl like elephants in the dead silent morning fog then you can come along too while we discover spelunking in the dark while sparks fly. Be careful because they say it's dangerous territory and our guide just had a grilled cheese sandwich made with real lime juice and potpourri. I like when violets bloom in the high fields with the grasshoppers singing away like it's their last day on this Mars far away from their mother's homes that once burned with the sound of crispy footsteps.

Sometimes I like to hold your special features in my mind until I'm not really sure whether it's been me or you that said that one thing that made me laugh and the sound rippled across the ground until it hit something sharp and then things weren't so good anymore. It's too bad things had to start that way although I guess I like endings because they leave a sense of permanence that's comforting in it's finality if not it's conclusion.

And that's how we've been living these days from one conclusion to another until we don't really see open doors anymore, it's really more about door jambs and curved locks that click in the dead of night until you can't stand the fingernails anymore so you rip it out like a barren woman.
Was an 'assignment'.
Each word must relate to the ones before and after it, but not to a "story". Let your mind roam free and write as it comes~
© 2009 - 2024 xandju
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