Stream of Consciousness
Fuck, I'm dying...
Forever glider of the landscape, inclines put in line by the stomps from the ancestors—the fuck is this spectrum—Strider effortlessly on the grip tape, pays in pain, late fines, on the double both ways. Don’t need your sympathy; I wanted to risk my spine, middle finger always remains fine. Always. No blinder intelligence skipping through green lights, fiddler of the flow. Mystifying the daily life guidance from death’s novocaine; confused? Well, that’s your confidence going, Thomas Wayne—wait, your bat was stillborn? Death’s for nothing, not for this comic; oh well. Seeking the journey, trying to predict its ending compulsively—this vessel—after the capitalist ad line. But in the meantime, too fine for the tricks belonging to the human credulity of you all’s connective, closed trade. Winks too consistent for me. Signals don’t gleam; we’re in the universe where they are forever unseen—let’s say. Different kind of pirate plunderer in the Skyline that clears the bridges. Still more of a leisurely Walker; all feelings remain mutual—you don’t get it. Fuck some futures hold. Why bother—that’s what I keep saying. Then fix the vessel.
By Willem Indigo27 days ago in Poets
