Perth's change purse.
An octopus walks into a bar with a pipe wearing pajamas under his arm, bartender says "So when are you going to play that thing?"
Octopus says, "Play? Once I figure out how to get this thing undressed I'm going to have sex with it."
I’ve spent the past six months or so crooning between the distant male counterpart [that I think I’m finding impossible existence in my self makeup], the less than satiated slight knowing that I can coax where and how to find personal evolution slightly risen above, just before the soufflé of it is bitten into and the whole nibble of the conception of that perception is just a tingling feeling that will raise, maybe, two hairs on my funny bone.
The other night I decided I really want to have a mouth and guitar hold like Dave Longstreth, last night he played and it was like he could stretch his whole throat over the mic like a tonsil-dotting stalactite cave and sang about Moctezuma and Jolly Jolly Jolly Egos.
I pile little sticks of people of knowledge onto a tight rope together and expect them to activate all in one synchronized moment on the rope during the morning, and to continue balancing this way for the rest of my life. Naturally, they wobble and hit the netting below within a relatively similar time frame, amalgamating in waggles. Mourned for a few hours as an unpropitious, shameful loss I won’t attempt to salvage. And then where’s my fungal growth got to go?
Does anyone want to let me live in their house? So long as you aren’t in the south. I’ll cook you beets and give you candles, a cold nettles infusion to dilute and drink throughout your days for your locks so they’ll get all giddy and calcium rich at the roots.
