Coughing up the funk

Granular sense of escapism, tricked into nude photographs of self for generations, stare into the skull’s heart-shaped eyes for too long and become a short-lived meme. Dye your hair halfway down, coughing up the funk with a fist in the air, tired of the same blatant use of sub quality indigenous ballads. Ready to make a splash? You too can become a merchandise if you grab the bull’s testicules like your life depended on it. Go ahead, bump fist with your seemingly seedy side kick and accept this ton of bricks. Throw the blistered dice in the cage, lucky shot, you just won a round trip to the iciest summit during the coldest summer. Adorned by a silly hat, strolling down the red carpet on your way to a blind date with a venison you have never met. Think of all the good lemonade you’ve had, punching holes in the sky, velvet gloves smeared with an old friend’s elbow grease stroking your thigh. Deemed adequate for recycling, impartial separation of the good, the bad and the ugly, taking life for a spin. Who do you take with you?