2 necrosiphified fingers, extra syllables for alertness to condition.
It’s what I see every time I close my eyes.
The man sitting behind me, waiting for his own story to be told in all his gloom and story.
The Lord of History, as if only he can present it himself.
Not even the asheran dude that turned to dust on that one Twilight Zone episode.
The monster the flytip plane wing made him scared.
I remember that guy.
Put him in prosthetics and unrecognizable beast.
Villain of Oz, they call me.
My son’s name appropriately.
the Cat one.
The perfect one. A
And the grey fox.
The fix to instability and employment-confidence-rockiness in a world so small.
Not gonna fuck my taxes.
But he sounds fine to say this at the dinner table!
Act-like-a-man; then why are you acting like me, Sir?
The appropriate comeback to every genderless golden-glovened battle between a snake and a cobra and the snake is a black mamba.
Fucking bride.
The-Marked-One.
Only one I’ve married, wasn’t even in time.
I should’ve waited 8+ years like I told you.
Never go to Georgia, knowing how to play fiddle.
You’ll get married in some archaic way and no one will know.
[As in, everyone will know – except you!]
How this vain history keeps on a’ going I have no clue.
I’ve studied cults for a living for 32 almost quick-change years professionally.
And even in your realm – I don’t know what that fucking means.
From the men’s side or other bitches.
I’ve no clue.
No se de ponder mia.
Whatever common core glue snuff you need to sniff out, obviously bullshit.
Why’d I put you in so many gawtdang movies.
I like how you, pomade.
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