The author stares at the jumbled, garbled, wordy mess, nurturing his
baby blister blues. The gaps in-between words multiply at an alarming rate,
soundless and vile. His made-up poetic magnificence awkwardly clashes with the
stark reality of the volatile and vicious vortex of trivial tautologies and
banal revelations flashing on-screen. Hyphenated horrors, jittery beyond
compare, force his body to revel in rebellious revulsion. Lost in bleak
bleary-eyed bouts of self-deprecation, he fancies himself a sky shark wrapped
in rainbows. His fingers are out of focus, a blurry mess, burning butterflies
breathing their last off-screen. His jokes are wearing thin but his laughter
never stops. Smugly whispering of dark things in broad daylight, he traces the
cracks in the ceiling with half-shut eyes.
Outside, volcanoes boil and burst in engulfing flame and snowdrops twirl
and bright leaves swirl and comets shine and lovers die and dance and die and
paths are carved in soft stone ground and wars are fought and forgotten
and moonlit waves erupt and disrupt the silence and guitars are smashed against
the stage and blood drips from open wounds and children learn their first
goodbyes and wolves dream of spacemen swimming through starless skies and the
sun dries tears and quiets fears and all is lost and all is well. Inside,
incomprehensibly incompetent, the author pens his last line.
Oh-so
clever-oh-oh-yes!
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