Thursday, October 14, 2004
A Morning Concealed with a Dose of Opium
I duly noted that at 2:41 in the morning the entire world looks like a portrait of a painting.
I wanted to smudge it with my thumb.
Oh, and before I forget "Good morning house plants!"
On today's menu it will involve Irish gangsters and very bland scrambled eggs.
And I am only conscious of all things left, so please be so polite and direct me to my cup of tea.
By the way, have you noticed that the sky is paraded in UGLY,
and those people in the tightly buttoned suits mesh into the sticky grey matter beneath my shoe.
Oh, and did you know that I lost my mind in the sink the other night? It went right down the drain,
like a god damn sewer rat.
And my cat? Yes, my cat is chasing something in the pant leg of my favourite pair of jeans. What cats see
must go beyond our own reality.
But that is not the point; the point is that I was looking down at my feet today. The torn sandals, and the supposed cartoonish
big toe and the three brightly coloured painted toe nails. I thought to myself, Who the hell are controlling these hideous creatures
and where on earth are they taking me?
The supermarket.
Of course.
This is where I ended up at approximately 3:03 pm. Landed right in aisle eight surrounded by boxes of
cavity-causing, colonies of sugar slowly building up in your colon, increasing your chances of an heart attack by 50% breakfast cereals.
Price check on aisle four.
A man approached me. Directly standing on my toes, and I asked "Would you like to tango?"
But I could not help but notice the faint spot above his upper lip.
Partially hidden under a pubescent sort of peach fuzz; growing like a fungus most likely.
He should get that looked at.
And OH! how I have informed him many a times, but he informs me that my imagination has been tweaked and I'm only contemplating
the venomous destruction of his upper lip.
I was also informed two years ago by a teacher, whose clothes did not fit his upper body, that I am only filled with nonsensical spit.
I gush.
I spew.
And I blow your house down, but not before I help myself to a sandwich.
Preferably with lettuce and onions.
A slab of peanut butter on the side if I'm feeling up to such a disastrous decision.
Lord only knows I have enough on my plate.
Which reminds me,
I did attend church with my grandmother tightly wrapped around my arm.
A very nice arm ornament indeed.
It was like I was a child again,
sitting in the middle pew directly behind the man with the phlegm-like neck fat,
being spoon fed something I did not like
and regurgitating it back up, only to playfully mold it into a variety of shapes and sizes.
Gooey on the sides
with chunks of carrots to be found,
sprouting out like the random hairs on my grandmother's chin,
chin, chin,
chinny, chin,
choo.
fabu.
I duly noted that at 2:41 in the morning the entire world looks like a portrait of a painting.
I wanted to smudge it with my thumb.
Oh, and before I forget "Good morning house plants!"
On today's menu it will involve Irish gangsters and very bland scrambled eggs.
And I am only conscious of all things left, so please be so polite and direct me to my cup of tea.
By the way, have you noticed that the sky is paraded in UGLY,
and those people in the tightly buttoned suits mesh into the sticky grey matter beneath my shoe.
Oh, and did you know that I lost my mind in the sink the other night? It went right down the drain,
like a god damn sewer rat.
And my cat? Yes, my cat is chasing something in the pant leg of my favourite pair of jeans. What cats see
must go beyond our own reality.
But that is not the point; the point is that I was looking down at my feet today. The torn sandals, and the supposed cartoonish
big toe and the three brightly coloured painted toe nails. I thought to myself, Who the hell are controlling these hideous creatures
and where on earth are they taking me?
The supermarket.
Of course.
This is where I ended up at approximately 3:03 pm. Landed right in aisle eight surrounded by boxes of
cavity-causing, colonies of sugar slowly building up in your colon, increasing your chances of an heart attack by 50% breakfast cereals.
Price check on aisle four.
A man approached me. Directly standing on my toes, and I asked "Would you like to tango?"
But I could not help but notice the faint spot above his upper lip.
Partially hidden under a pubescent sort of peach fuzz; growing like a fungus most likely.
He should get that looked at.
And OH! how I have informed him many a times, but he informs me that my imagination has been tweaked and I'm only contemplating
the venomous destruction of his upper lip.
I was also informed two years ago by a teacher, whose clothes did not fit his upper body, that I am only filled with nonsensical spit.
I gush.
I spew.
And I blow your house down, but not before I help myself to a sandwich.
Preferably with lettuce and onions.
A slab of peanut butter on the side if I'm feeling up to such a disastrous decision.
Lord only knows I have enough on my plate.
Which reminds me,
I did attend church with my grandmother tightly wrapped around my arm.
A very nice arm ornament indeed.
It was like I was a child again,
sitting in the middle pew directly behind the man with the phlegm-like neck fat,
being spoon fed something I did not like
and regurgitating it back up, only to playfully mold it into a variety of shapes and sizes.
Gooey on the sides
with chunks of carrots to be found,
sprouting out like the random hairs on my grandmother's chin,
chin, chin,
chinny, chin,
choo.
fabu.
