HEAD CREAMED UNDER GRILLED HONEY . FLAMBÉ JAZZ BRUSSELS PANTS ASUNDER FRESH THUGS OF DISDAIN SELF-LOATHING PICKING MORALITY PUNS SQUASHED UNDER COFFEE AND VICE . ON CRUXES OF GHOSTS I LUMBERED, A PHANTOM THROUGH THE MOMENTS OF MY LIFE, A DARK TRICKLE OF EXPERIENCE WASHED INTO DUSTY TUBES OF MECHANICALLY IMPOSSIBLE RESURRECTION . PRESSURED HEATHENS RATTLED STUCCO DRAPES TO SIGNAL FOR HELP! HELP! THE LIVING ROOM FLOODED WITH POORLY CRAFTED EXCUSES BUILT ON BACKWARD-FACING LIES JUGGLED HIGH INTO BOILING FREEDOM WITH STAMINA OF INEXPLICABLE MEMORY . CRASHED INTO A LANGUAGE OF RESIDUE OF SCRIPTED DETRITUS OF THEATRICALLY-LIT SOLITUDES RISING UP FROM 5,000 YEARS AGO WHEN BAEDAKER STOMACHS GUIDED CHILDREN AND ARMIES TO FABLED COMPARTMENTS OF SHADOWLESS CHAOS . HOBBLED AMONG BIGOTS AND BELIEVERS ENJOYING LATE LIFE HOBBIES THAT NEEDLESSLY INVOKE ANCESTRAL EXCLAMATIONS TRANSLATED THROUGH THE 62 LANGUAGES OF SILENCE BEFORE TURNING INTO A SPARKLING BURLESQUE PAPERWEIGHT . MY BAILIWICK IS FROST AND MOLD, BUTTER AND BOOKS, BITTERNESS AND BADINAGE, MY PUNY TREACHERIES FOILED BY A PHOSPHORESCENT MILK WARMLY ENGULFING A CENTURY’S THIRST BUT SMEARING THE FUTURE WITH A SUICIDE SMILE THAT SHALL HUM WITH MY ORBITING CATHARSIS .
