5 Feb 2014

frog on a log

waiting, waiting
Waiting. (is the convention), waiting:

for someone
to make something

of course, it seemed like things were on the brink

of pouring, but then it became clear there was merely a drizzle, soon bone-dry, like the wit of a wet blanket survivalist

i know, i can't be waiting for someone - i say i'm gonna be the change i wanna see, but that was just cloud talk, man - i mostly talk in references now, but a simpsons reference is extra cool if it's left uncited and we all just know it's a simpsons reference but don't mention the fact, just treat it like a public domain figure of speech, like it's flouride in the drinking water. Hydro-metaphors. Drought seasons.

Until I get a phosphorescent concresence of artistic essence, I'm going to mention things that are real, I'm gonna get real on ya, and raw, like a radio pirate lounging about in this makeshift booth, and say that I'm driven to type words lately, but I'm out of practice.

Also, on the subject of real things, to paraphrase a hundred mile-long trail of inoperable drone-struck analogies, I'm hoping something delightful and unexpected will suddenly come out of the blue, in the form of some one showing me there are ways to be I'd never even known - as such things have happened in the past, but not for a long time, so long I stopped believing in miracles and even drug magic! Ah, oh, drug magic, fairy dust, angular momentum, ketaverse! But I'm so open to fucking up some shit, or fucking some shit up, for I have drunk of the kool-aid, Oh Yeah!

But I can't do much with this fetid fated state of lethargy, I need said theoretical person to make a thing happen, whereby I can be energized, regain old faculties, synthesize never-before-seen ones, generally 'n fundamentally be an all 'round down to earth post-human 21st century schizoid. So this is what it's come to. This is where life begins, at abortion.

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