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The stuff headaches are made of
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fish face foot
Suburb like slang for slum when you’re nonstop worried about grievous thieves and thugs on bleak, yet steady pedals me thru traffic, my sporty sleek Dimweel weaving thru traffic; freedom tricks, trackstands and wheelies escape the sorry throat slit juggernaut hobos in thick woolen coats, bloodstained sheepskin forever bleating weeping. They know how they know I tell you when their affect is to churn fear in the guts of every pedestrian (many a-plenty) even those scholastic teenagers of town, their college plateau peak, and toddlers on playgrounds, babies in strollers whose mother must be so mindful in her stroll unaroused, too, for that matter. Oh my God.
I don’t believe in spirituality, per se, nor necessarily nihilism, because though there is something so innately fake, so simulated about our existence, the deeper you dive the dark of annihilation, or either fly among the most beautifully bedazzling constellations—functional dualistic entanglement, a paradox baffling—the less important you subscribe the podium of evolution and whether its banner unfolds a trophy of rarest gold, like she who holds as a result of sorrow that her only babes are sucked away, off the Wisdom Grid and finally shrugged at, lost, forgotten… Dusty laughter of maternal apathy!
