deliamber

"I'm Just a little black cliche, hovering over the honey tree..."
(to the tune of some distant memory resonating dully in the vanishing dust of preconciousness)
She is awash with Misconceptions
And moored fitfully by conflict of
body x soul x body x soul x body
The essence of self is in contradiction
The voicing of such is inane and overtly
obvious, and therefore considered trite,
Shallow, wrong to voice that which is
true, or be a slippery seed, waiting for birth.
What's her sign? the cliche responds;
"I am a bull, with tender horns
I am a prudish voyeur
I am an exhibitionist whose shame pit is unfathomable
I am fat free Jellow with a dollop of lard.
I am the summit of a sphere
(you are my ball bearings, dear)
I am a surrealist with a nasty bent towards rationalism.
I am a Buddhist that wants to kill you
I am the Tang in your soup (Marine, by judge).
I am the baby you kiss to sweet dreams
I am a vortex filled to bursting
I am nothing, I am nothing, I am less than that:
I am a human being.
The words of Skin herself resound:
"It takes blood and guts to be this way, but I'm still just a cliche"
John Kesey said acid would expand the thought away
I dunno mang, maybe I like it.
*psst*
We're all rockstars here, Babe.