Creature, if you insist on measuring existence in syllables, it might sound something like this: tonsillectomy, tuft, tic-tac, tremble, tube top, turgid.
(What year is it anyway?)
Imagine if you will, in your seedy thought cavern:
A man in a pink shirt furiously pedaling a bike somewhere in Asia shouting, “Numb, nannoo, nuts, nefarious, nary a day!”
His words are like a narcissist. We shouldn’t admire them in the least. We should let them steam out of his ears as his jaw chatters like a set of wind-up teeth. We should hold them in contempt as if they were a girl who wouldn’t even look our way. Besides, listening to others is for people with nothing better to think about.
Hey, Mister! Hey, Creature! No one ever told me I’d be stuck here. I demand an explanation for the cleft in my future. I want to sing like a lark and fuck like a rabid dog, foam spilling and smelling like sulfurous summer and banging like a concussion. I want to be one light year away, trapped in shaving cream form.
There’s a ghost at my door
And a hair in my perfection.
There’s a disconnect with my host
And a thistle in my friendship.
There’s a paradise in my subway
And an eyepatch on my deity.
In conclusion, my friend, the theme of this life is a cruel one and the hope of this world nutty and cashew-shaped, with a pen name and a fake moustache.