Swift, the drift. A boat can’t float too well with a hole. Holy boats stink and so do the beasts underneath waiting to feast. Shatter the fatter ones, they get served too well. Cents and smells. Swells, over the tow. Ghosts know all too well who in the hell has broken into the dreams and created the schemes of the flock.
Straddle the saddle and wake up. Death Rites, watch and plan the service. Ride the doll-fin quilled wings, oil should not be spilled. Splash into the night. The moon will provide all the light. When the sun comes up it must be time to strife.
Gleaming in its glory, all of this story. It’s about the fish. Fish in the sea. Fish in the market. Barking, larking, and way too drunk to see underneath the sea. Destroyed by their adolescent minds. Minds, minds, and bodies committing crimes. Sitting at desks, shitting in porcelain, and becoming fat. Wash the hooks, wash the hands, stop making plans, paws, and palms, shaking and earthquaking.
Vanish. Diss, miss, miss, missed. The dream is a scheme, miss Martin Luther King Jr, Michael King, do not forget Lorraine, Memphis, memories haunt me. Robert Kennedy, he had to tell the people from a brave steeple, Bobby, Francis, June, July, stop and see the flies.
Vomit and piss. Bacteria all around, fucking stop pissing on the frown. Wash, wash, wash, washed. I prefer the grey, when it rains there may be a rainbow. Keep your eyes open, you may find the pot of gold. Thats more important than a fucking statement. The truth is love. Leprechauns are bearded creatures. Keep hoping and let your eyes open, keep on hoping. Standing divided is so un- united. Hatred does not guide the light. The magical fairies of the world are the ones who truly care to tell someone what is at the end of the end of the rainbow. A POT of gold. I will let you have three wishes. Not three misses. I care too much, because I need to be released. The sickness is trapping. Do you fucking understand. I did not make this plan. I am expiring and so are you. Wake up. The earth is spinning. Columbus thought it was flat, nope, no Sir. Only you, and yours… minds are flattened by the distraction.
We need no nuclear reaction. Sit at that table and work it out. Voices are better and louder that bombs. Trust me. Quite the predicament. Pickles and sickles.