Monday, January 18, 2010

The Station Collapses

The station collapses. The station collapses. Bodies fall from pylons, this is violence. Brick after brick. The station is collapsing. The walls around the station surround. Falling down. Into the ground. Pens and pencils litter the ground. Walking down. Stairs and coffee down the stairs for more stares and copy. Run the job through the door. Out into the city and finding jobs. Jobs fall off the station and hit the ground. The table is decorated in dumpster divings. Celery and lettuce fall off Mom like lint. Dead TVs blocking all exits to prevent burglars from stealing our insurance. Health guidelines tapes up to the walls like wallpaper. Don't forget to take your pills that make you happy and follow them with some sort of depressant; no need to wreck Christmas. Christ in the microwave harvesting cheese. Timers set up all over the house to remind us to eat. Soap is rubbed on all parts of the station to prevent disease. Wash you hands by opening doors. Walk in and announce that you no longer need to use the bathroom. Angels cut off my genitals - saves on condoms. Jesus saves. Dry clean missions to space to vacuum off the dirt. And you send this tri colored umbrella into the theater. Everyone is doubly sure they won't get wet. Drying paint on the faces of those that march in parades. Pork and Pepsi is droppped from airplanes onto small villages and you can text 934849Laundry to send money to your favorite bank to process into tax deductions for Bill Gates that will buy whatever is useable to the small island from his stock portfolio. I own many pork in my stock Trapperkeeper that I bring to visits to Dad to convince him I have a job and no longer legally mentally disabled. They make me go outside to eat my food. I sick out the other kids in the house. All my nashing teeth and ugly flagulance. Send coroners to the bathroom. I can spell half the time. And I can only perform math with rhyme. They drive me out to the city and hope that someone will shoot me. Left alone nowhere to call home. This station is falling apart. Later I'm born through Hindu spirit into the body of a parked car and I feel this is higher up on the wheel. A man gets in and drives me to the station that collapses on my head/trunk. Mafia goons spill out of the 78th level and fall to the ground with ethnic slurs that still spin my head as I try to sleep and forget about all this shit falling out of the sky. Go home and play video games as a llama. Big toes all over the controllers. This llama smokes. I've been smoking the same huge cigarette for a year. Imagine walking into a room and finding a llama smoking a cigarette that's a yard long. You'd probably think you're in that one world with the Patriot Act and tasers being shoved into elderly hips. Spent the night in the park again throwing old mouse pads at squirrels. They took them and made a damn to keep beavers out of the park park park park. Purple mountains are only majestic in Disney parks. Eat more bark. Look out, that's gonna get called art. ////////////// > Then we move out into those ugly places between the atoms and learn space cadet lingo that's like speaking in tongues, but it's done with the flapping of arms. It sounds like farts. Go buy some furniture. Go buy some art....

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