in some weird combination of the elements, as they have built up over
ages and eons waiting while the journey is underway for a physical
representative to take that hanging initiative to change the world, and
under the right circumstances of luck versus fate the child is born… the
weak end mirrored in the glass as the sexual revolution spins on its
axis of evil, lovely and passionately working under the surface of the
glass, the people procreating into blind frustration as an expulsion of
definite expression made material gesture relative to attempts at
pleasure… the decision is always most crucial then to the measurable
minute of detail, whether the yes or no ratio will affect the outcome
with exceptional disposable ‘uhh’, but there is never more accurate a
way to find this out than the field test… the extremes weighing in and
weighing down with their so-called ‘two cents’, waiting for the Man is
always the most aggravating game, and especially in regards to the
lesser aspects of the beast… the crowded feeling that one gets just
before this elevator takes off, and we find ourselves drifting around in
no-damn-land to speak of, though there is only this realization
glimmering… that we know we are there at all is enough to keep my
thoughts Here a little longer… to pour down the drain with the rest of
the drink, and the true wisdom off-street that beleaguers the
domesticated waif, the friendship has to be more than just this for that
it would seem… with intellect only slightly necessary in adapting to
our wilderness, i find us imperiled by a culture knife in hand, and it
is more like MC Escher drawing the hand cutting itself off… the canvas
desires other things to appease it, like the spilling of blood or the
flowing of wine into gullets, these are the choices in the prices we
have made our weights to bear…
