Seen a guy named Steve limping around late at night with his gods in his underwear. He finds coins in the gutter and sets his lunch to sea with a lead pipe tucked into his belt. Rolls soil down the cylinder heaven lodged in his upholsters. It tumbles grain by grain away from his heavy head and then Lindy takes his time and sits on it for golden seals. Apologetic tokens running cookie crumbs down though Steve's cannibal cylinder and straight into Lindy's line of sight. Tightened down too brave into his face, she won't look well, she'll find others. Others will find her. Steve cannot be offended for HIS gods tumble down into his jugular and march sincerely on out through his eagerness . . . the light on the other end is warm . . . and sterile. Breaking waterways that lay too deep in Steve's bellies not to kill his appetite, Lindy seeks an alternate wag in the tail. Can't keep coming to this point and stopping the progress. Can't keep beginning to begin and never get started. So . . . Steve trips and his cylindrical defiance flies sideways, knocking Lindy in the temple and meeting up with Steve's crimson roses. No longer able to watch the pachyderm destroy himself, Lindy drifts off into the sea of rauchiness to find another misery. Another crude face lacking moniker or personality. Confident that she will find that which she is looking for . . . one would be inclined to rejoice. Rocking back and forth fiddling with his cotton goods, Steve can feel the cold air that can't get in. No matter how hard it tries, Steve knows that the negligence of years past can never come into his home. He emits an enormous sigh of relief and pets his thoughts from the inside. No external picture boxes or televisions, mass transport, manual laborers, or gaudy telephones needed now. Just pure, sweet, inner beauty on it's way to perform some noble deeds. Steve likes the warm walls as they envelope him, and he can feel them liking his warmth right back. Time to grow. Steve can feel himself confined with no room to grow and he absolutely wallows in the constriction. Smiles are wide and numerous as Steve sets headstrong into the act of mud wrestling with one's self. Chips of old paint fly from the ceilings and down into Steve's cylindrical eagerness, breathing him new life. The deteriorating environment shows Steve crystal clear windows through which there are new fires, new blizzards, and many new tidal waves. A running track of square nightmares whizzing by like flourescent hells in the night that will never give way to the light of day. Steve still limps around in the dead of the rotting night, lead pipe tucked soudly into his belt, robotically reciting his identity. Mucus and spit falling from his baby chin, oozing down into the asphault and leaving behind a glistening river of acid like syrup strung down his maniacal cylinder. Grain by grain he drifts away from his thought-heavy head. Cell by cell he attempts to schism from his imperfections, sorrows, and empty households. Soon there is nothing left but an empty husk. No parties for anyone to attend down deep in the black. No real gatherings of any sort taking place in the stale air left behind. But that shell still remains. Dragging itself through one routine motion on to the next, leaving behind a string of saliva and a trail of rust. That voracious cylinder now a part of the shell's existence. That horrid cylindrical duty now a brother to all of it's thoughts. Strings severed . . .
Reason for writing:
I'm unhappy with myself.
Birth sign: Sagittarius
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