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Paradise; in a Kafkaesque dream nightmare state, state of the union, state of confusion. Blinding stupidity of the crossed wiring; red to blue to black and back. Life cycle locked/ a reptilian repetition. Seems like, feels like, circles going around have I.
Back that ass up to the docks loading loaded blue baby blues. Re-christened “pride of” from the distressed disease metal pandemic of years of days gone fly by night-watch sailor soldier departed.
It is a Kafka high, or so It’s heard of these literary highs; makes you and only you feel like a bug, a crawling under the skin in the Crowley head space race.
Rewrite this betrayal of the original sin cafe boy.
Sit looking for acceptance into that inner circle of the mag rat inner space circle maggots. Insecticide kills em dead Fred. Stoned fat dead headed behind basement wallboard’s and decrepit cardboard of tombstone gray highrise housing. 15:26 tic tok; tower clock, decent descendents looking back to the Popular Mechanics wow future now. Game show… you bet your life… play to win lose or die. You want some chips with that? Old lady looking at menu-ed waffle house Key lime pie in the sky of tattered old Southern Living magazines fluttering open pages of pecan lined pastries of available hot now.
Wake walking; displayed on the street. You can; can you see feel the diseases. Ravaged to the marrow, take a chance, feel feed the need. Injected relief from a day years ago. Page out of the book. Dreams so sweet feel like a bug they say. Wake up screaming, got the shakes bug baby blue. Kafka caffeine high. Black skies; black like the souls of those that came before after-thoughts infested with the distressed metal disease.
Dark thought throughout. Black skies black and white lies of the waffle house boys who see everything from the all seeing lidless sleepwalk awake going through the emotions. Sleepwalking dead, vacant eyes no surprise. No renewal, license revoked now all your governments belong to them.
Half vacant net cafes, empty terminal terminals. Vacant stares vacant souls bared for anyone who cares. No one does no surprise no sunrise and the metal disease eating through the fabric of what is left of the social cafe society that waits to dies in horrific silent convulsions
Deaths head dead head. The Avenues Mall shines, empty look walking vacant wishful thinking. Water-front not too far off. Ocean waves rolling ashore a cool salty breeze that refreshes. Gutter prophets and street poets gather now it’s all they can do . Rotting and looking for distractions sexual or otherwise. Shouting abuse to no-one and everyone it’ is pie in the sky die fuckers die.