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I Wish I Hadn't Cried So Much

The rivetted soldiers of putrid dawn and the weathered all-night bus are both waving their cracked fingers of soup and terror into the lacey turnpike of john's baudelaire's midget, and the fatman on the wooden spoon won't move for Susan's furious bellowing of graceland trousers, which pretty much gives your pint of kingdom to the shelf-stacker from Idaho in his mother-mollusc bowtie.


So we wait like seventeen hamsters to file their way out of the umbilical yard of exercise-bikes and machine-guns. While mamma dash fakes her white glove most starkly, they stay she can ride that car most greenly, with her hands tied behind her back they stay, for her uncle's rainbow is organic of the debt-free society of aluminum-tyre leopard unequals, and gets his morning drink curtsy, if you please, from Fiona's ancient wardrobe of wisdom and tears. Your grandma's proud of her new teeth. It's a great collection of toothpicks, it's like watching Mary Shelley on a trampoline.

So a man wonders where his keys are, on nights like moon-shattering froggy hiccups pile-up on the freeway and twenty dead, and her medicine chest on fire still in my spooky garage, and Brian won't leave home without his dad's raping permision. Frank Jest sticks his head into the doorjam and then spreads it unevenly onto Fred's balding head. Suddenly purple Fred screams, "Apathy is setting in around here, and we don't even have the rent yet!" Steve works multiple rotating graveyards in the plaster of paris airport inside the homeless box, where he helps carry the wheelchairs and other free gifts onto the mid-West planes.

It's all an autumnal fall from grace for Gene Kelly, more children sprawled on his dancing shoes than a priest has flocked. War-torn refugees litter the newspapers, and Texaco has formed a basketball team in response. Aurora won't play ball, as usual, she woke up believing mexican pinatas have rendered the white house into a painting by Renoir of a bishop being stabbed by 12 nuns, and Frank Jest wandering around the house for three days whispering 'kangeroo-fire'. His current ambition is to be a scone, followed closely by a hibernating bear.

It's about time someone pulled the needles out of my eyes so I can see where I'm growing. In the car-tyre alleyways we fumble for loose dandelion change and sparkling muffins, but on the rooftops no-one escapes the bells of ravished grace, which slides a knife through bundles of rotting hair and mixed-media declarations in 17 languages, and loose cravings for asteroid stirrups that glow in the park, where me and Frank sat down like goldfish to ham a shake, or rue the insane fingers of fridges that jam the blunders shut with malice in their frostbitten heads. Crystal got fired today, for stealing beautiful glances from her co-workers. Her vocal talents are medusic, and she plays a cruel guitar. She spent all night writing a song called I want you, whoever the fuck you are.


The results of course were indelible. Uninvented, we carelessly placed a piled-high 5-gallon bucket of sugar on the doorstep for halloween. But none of the kids took it, so then we placed it by the bus-stop of clarity, and it's still there. People are just too busy to stink, or even steal, or even brake the virtue leaves slowly with tongues of moony leather, which swim half-price into hot-dog screaming turtle's face. I buy all my vehicles from the dollar-store. Most chopped liver dreams of being liquidised into a mailman, hopping dad's where the bunny is.


Yo Daddy Fluke, flower-picker, 5-star grapefruit specialist, thinks he's east of eden, but marble factories begin at the toes and slowly work up, until fate throws a lucky bugger into the bike-wheel, then it's back to the spooky garage for a pick me up, a lending library in the mess-room of lice, and three days later the broken back furnace of insipid managment has been tranquilised into a well-worn version of joy. As Cecil be the mill once said, If you want to find Ophelia, check the personal column.


Sanity still rides shotgun to an elfin fairground, but sadly the blue-bottles have reached an impasse. That's why the entire middle east is waiting in line at the blood-bank with Alice. We all play second-fiddle but tell the police we're orange astronauts. Mi case-history es tu case-history. The man we see thru our blindfolds has eyes like treacle, and a grey-white beard that drags the ground.

When I went into the bathroom with Queen Fortuna, to take my dreamy piss, taking the tittie from hot neptune's pillar, Bob Dylan whispered into Alice's ear, Study History. Lots of Jews get lynched.