This is a stream of written prose that has not been edited since it was first written a few days ago. This one loosely rhymes, but loosely doesn’t either.
Tell a story explaining what I have done around the house and all that shit mother fucking done with the thing and the thing thing thing, walnut snap break, cotton, gyroid fencing, better waiting room furniture, tastefully buttoned shirts, carpet salesmen, dusty old books, the rolling stones, a broken record, a washerlady’s purse, a broken hip, a smashed up railway station, a silent whistle, a short-born teaser, a jealous rich-mun (blud) and a broken side nose. Worst than that there’s a shoved up handkerchief and some iron filings ingrained in the carpet, and nobody loves you no more, and the water begins to taste of lead and you start to feel it all go to your head and the procession of idiots flicker on the tv and you thank Christ-Almighty it’s a democracy. And then somebody speaks to you and you hear nothing at all, and the curtains are drawn to keep out the world and wrapped inside in a duvet you writhe and you squirm, all instead of doing and acting out what is that you yearn, but you’re lying in the duvet in front of yourself, the picture on the wall a glimmer of what you once dreamt. You would wish to be on stage in front of the crowd, singing your verses crafted to avow what is about life which you wish to infer to others who can understand, stand stupefied and reduced to murmur. You want others to understand, to connect with them, show them yourself and in turn make them think of who they are.
Do this, and tread lightly with your words.
Atlas Stood 