The Talkin’ Headline Blues #27

The harmonic glut of conspiracy guilting the majority into believing fables and morality tails which only belong to the past around blank staring gas fires lit by helium lamps in disposable forest enclaves. Who knows why no one makes sense anymore and why no one holds anything dear to their heart? Do you have anything you hold sacred that ain’t up in the sky or ain’t living up at the North Pole?

Following the woven path the lady stands astride her horse and sighs at the sight of her civilization. She found it again after 7 weeks missing without anyone missing her. She was forgotten until she reappeared in a leopard-print bikini and blood-stained feet. Her masters had all moved on. Rolling in their proverbial mustard gas chambers. Giggling. Farting. Creating.

At least someone’s adding to the depth of the industrial world. Even if that means being on the verge of a criminal investigation or slaughtering the alphabets of foreign tongues. I’ve got no problem with that. As long as I don’t have to see it on my drive to my day job. As long as the stench don’t stink up my transmission fluid. I’ve got daydreams to drift off into. I’ve got websites to visit. I’ve got a paycheck to earn!

So just let the world sputter on in its revolutions. Let my feet rest on its shaking ground. Let me feel the swell from time-to-time. Feel a part of the swell, even. Then the tide can recede and the sands again can dry out for the wind to blow and whip.

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