Counting sheep around the clock,
sleeping with face in hands, tolerating the devil.
I'm on your time and your on mine, we are both oxymorons, but we are less than that.
Our land lord won't fix anything, all they want is to party. All I dream of is partying, but I've chosen destiny.
I am no enemy to the state, but it makes me sad that I have to be.
Consider me a rapidly progressing rhapsody. Say it again, simply for kicks. A modern day black comedy;
quirky, yet outrageously unfunny.
Half cocked imagination, yet it flows as if—
and then a brick wall purified by sombre light, dry heat, flexible scampering.
There is a sheet, but projections derail.
The cloth is frail, and the machine
needs some other words. Tell your GP you are fine.
—
Inconsiderably jerky, or a cool man in a messed up headspace.
Pack a suitcase, he packed nuts, disregarding counting stock when grocery shopping.
Freedom of love and hatred, kiss and tell.
The hell with all this cat ****, not ******,
but getting close.
The rest is up for the taking.
