Plenty of pearls but no harbour, it’s not a lemon-scented feast for the gents anymore. Put your zoot suit back in the refrigerator, you’re next to gargle with a gallon of moth-like gelato. All of it for the chills sent down your vertebrae anonymously, be courteous and return the ice cold greetings by a shiver of the upper lip. Nauseous, worried that the melting won’t be pixelated? Rest assured, you won’t be the first to lose grip of normality. Swing left, give the odd passers-by a good look, do you truly believe they know their own use-by date? It’s the mirage of the old resurrection, a giant fresco of your foes and pals in the hours of reckoning. Time to master the clutch, gear up, zoom in where the freedivers land.
A generous attack goes a long way, the participants are left pondering, powdering their utopias with the gleaming glycerin of old propellers. What a spectacle, what a buildup of faith by the shattering of truth. Now guzzle your ketamine, prepare for the C-section behind closed doors, better bribe the surgeon for a red carpet leading to your personal sinkhole and eggs benedict for breakfast. Don’t stare at the canopy for too long, it might melt your owls and divas, and then no more operas within the metastasis. How dramatic. See this hollow walnut on the quilt? Snatch it and feed it to your wombat after midnight to get the symmetry that’s right for you.
No quid pro quo at this stage, we’re nearing the benchmark ridden of rest. Stomach emptied by all the spoof meals you were served at the helipad while waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Goodbye spotless ceiling. Keep your finger on the dial, your meerkat on a diet, we only live once so come forward with a handful of yams to set the record straight in the eye of the needle. Don’t let it skip the skit, mumble on the interlude to get the garrison gathering the troops, play the intro for the fiends. A few more layers of musical strata and the symphony will be legitimate. At least, until the boomerang flies straight again and hits the bell in the abdomen.