timpeltje: (Default)
[personal profile] timpeltje

He who called the man who said I was dead, but called me and revered in dark petals sleeping across from the courtyard, dancing curtains in their skimpy dresses, jiggling up and down, leaving traces of desire etched in the granite rocks weighing down on minds, where belated gifts are returned and exchanged for fingernail clippings of homeless men who used to rule the world, but are now roaming astray.

“Time sure changed” is printed in our DNA, unprocessed information stowed away on damaged hard drives and all the train wrecks in the world cannot bring back your little pet bunny. In vain we weep, in vain we sleep. Rest assured, or at least that’s what they told us before running off in the pitch-black forest, hands above their heads, screaming their lungs out and calling me a dead man.

The rocks are still trusting; hear them breathing in their comatose tranquillity; you don’t just join a club of rocks, you need to become one of them. Moronic as they are, we rely on them for our sanity, the only razor-thin connection we preserve to the outside world, the real one, not the one where we hail from.

Nobody loses, where there is fire, we can wait for the firemen to arrive and take it roughly from behind. You roll the stone dice and find yourself envying the flames, so badly you will enter them. Or you think you will, until the gin wears off and you found out maybe you triggered all of this. A particularly hungry owl could perhaps tell you more about the outcome of this tale of self-destruction, but let’s assume you are smart enough to figure it out.

Thick veins pump the blood towards the ocean, a force majeure tidal wave heading in the opposite direction. There are those who choose to ride it, and there are those who scratch their balls in discontent. While non-exclusive of each other, I assume the latter is the only viable option.

Oxygen rains down on us, creating a high that will bury all other highs ever produced by the factory just down the road. Toxic waste spreads to those dancing curtains, increasing their velocity, doing nothing but beg me for more.

And then you just nod, even if it’s a nod that just means “no”.

And look at those rocks listening! Obeying! What are they? Morons?!