Wednesday, 30 November 2016

scratch that itch

And a good afternoon to you delicious honey coloured curtains, sheepishly sieving dull light into a golden tan on my bed.
A ruinous sepia tinted hue outside with a hint of dystopian warmth frozen in the crevices of icy shallows.

The world seems especially inviting if you were to coalesce into a non entity as protozoan as tumbleweed; letting yourself astray hither and thither.  An absurdity insignificantly breathing, exhaling purposeless existence.
Unintelligently immune to the workings of existence and too asinine to know better.

Or perhaps if you were to turn yourself inside out, so that your ribs could see how it feels when the weather's breezy. Taut tissue relaxing, lungs deflating and muscles unwinding.
Walking on the pavement hailing hi's to eyes passing by, a sodden horror of red nerves skinless bound tight in sinews of bleeding corpuscles.
Spongy brain unfurling into thick ribbons of sticky goo, a pumping heart with chambers four black and blue.
Smiling at the sky with eyes a horrific collection of stringy veins and molten fluid.

A perfect antidote to dismal days for when you want to give up and go.


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