The Literal Corral

POOP DOOP DEE DA BOP BOP BARAM

Let’s roll down a cliff together.

I’m a bitter old man.

What matters is what you make. 

I’m not quite sure where I’ll find my lost relevance, here. I’ve checked the nooks, and the cranny. Even between tired phrases. Ah well, let’s pretend I’ve found it for a little while. Humor me, please?

It is my belief that quandaries exist through people: and, so, touch like skin and flow like feet. This is the pulpy foundation of most, though. Which seems to be the breathing irony–a label ignored until its owner flounders–that courses through extra-. intro- mmunication. 

I am a discontent endomorph, which is a growing cliche’. But I am not so fraught to be blind behind wet eyes. No, no, I pay attention. Much so. And maybe it’s a sociopathic growth in me to brag, then, that I am clear to the relations shared with others…the others’ relations with each other. And I find them tumors of each other, tumors of my own. Collecting.

Reaching.

Showing purulence as if it were the trend on a runway.

But the human is pleasure-seeking, pain-avoiding. It thrives for life and is given a pre-destiny at birth: the hope of a mother and, further, a body that begs to live as well as can be.

So it is a selfish nature, supposed. Maybe. Philosophical banter and bicker tosses altruism as a counter…selflessness. The thousand year dance that builds from these words made of beast and blood and bone and bile may not end. And certainly, I can’t dispute any sense that evolves from it. Any point thrown into focus pertaining to the essence of the human…of the being, is quite valid.

Cyclical contradictions of the moment, like goatee’d college sophomores unicycling through ‘13 as if it were '30 or whatever era that one wheel and a seat seemed reasonable.

Maybe there’s an eternal jester, roused out of laughter by an outcry and, in omnipotent rage, cast us all into some great joke of uncertainty. 

I don’t know what I see in myself…them. Tumor(s), joke(s), uncertain.

Yes, people are uncertain. And, maybe in acknowledging that, we will be a bit more silenced and not a mountain on a brain or a brat in a sentence.

Sandy dance.

Just…dreaming. We’re all just dreaming. I don’t want to wake up. You’ll all go. I’ll be alone. I have to keep it this way. 

I could be the antagonist of the world–I’d stop its joyous spin.

My mission is peace, yet.

I’m scared and sad, I am.

I’ll die before I’m anything else.

That’s the human in me, right?

In my dreams I’m the nothing man. I’m the man I never wish to be but imagine being always.

The pain, the pain. The sleepless sleep is a devil’s deal I’d keep forever to be happy.

It’s never quite the enough we’re looking for.

So much, yeah? We did so much.

I certainly have; so much to come, too.

…There was just a perfect moment somewhere in all that, yeah? The nose was to the ground and I breathed loam. I left my mark in heat, and it gets cold so easily now.

Sure, we could start a fire. I can make a slow burn. I can hum to crackling wood under catatonic blackness. I think so.

But that’s where my descension will come into being. That’s where I’ll probably freeze and be brittle later.

I’m ignorant, anymore.

It was funny when you tried to break me down; but then you realized I was stone.

And you were just a wet blanket.

They think it’s all right.

But it’s all wrong.

I’ll destroy it–that’s the answer.