quasi_sean

it's a sad night spent lonely in the car

it is here that i watch the flowers dance & dangle dead like a trapeze artist developing a rodeo skit for an apathetic audience--devoid of actual contact or memory speaking thru twelve panes of glass-ware vaguely sensitive & alive & loud.

draw curtains & the show.
the show is cigar smoke filtering thru the mask. the ghoul is frightening. the tables are broken all around.

it's almost a progressive scatological tune for the masses--

she speaks to kindly to the shadows. she fingers puppets & disguises them w/excuses & Kool-aid stains all over their shirts. they eat what they can. they eat revolutions & such. i think they are beautiful when they cry.

hold them in their trailers & rusty chains around the refridgerator to keep the moths out. they see stars. they believe they are Hollywood material. they write notes w/their alphabet cereal & vomit up the milk that they are allergic to. they practice golf in the spare bedroom with balls of tape & broken bones.

we can dance with them. in the moon. they will remember that we smelled good.

UNTIL THE GATE CLOSES--THE BALLROOM FILLS UP W/AN ANGRY MOB OF CHARACTERS FROM GHOST STORIES...

get us out of this madness.

no more food. let us wilt away and play drums on our skulls. let us masturbate over the obscene gestures made by the high voices behind the desks. i'll scream near you when you are crawling up the walls.

you. are. foreign.