Conversing With Myself

You wake up and consume a slice of dreamcake, not knowing that your foot is on the accelerator and the pedal’s to the metal. Infantile is your virility; unseen and unevolved. Moving forward to you means moving sideways and unless somebody says something, you’ll wind up in the meat grinder.

I’d slap your face if you had one. You have at least two that I know of and neither is around long enough to take a picture. The lies that flow from that hole above your chin makes me drown in the vulgarity of your unadaptable premise. Even you have started believing the smoke that emanates from those curled, wormy lips.

Yesterday was a dream and tomorrow doesn’t exist, so where does that leave you? The mundanity of your present escapes and flees while you’re fumbling in the dirt with the sun setting like an anchor tossed over board. It plunges downward and you won’t ever get back the minutes you have squandered bathing in sin and futile slumber. There is no taking back. Only loss.

Who am I to judge and belittle you? Am I not just mirroring your impervious anecdotes? Tell you what…. I won’t question your assinine behaviour and we’ll all get along just fine, yes? But see, you bother me too much. The sickness and twisted sadness inside you makes for pitchy fireworks that less than illuminate. The paths you straddle and the death surrounding you mortgage your very soul, can you not open your stapled eyes and witness this?

The animosity spawning in me for your irreverent ways is tremendous and I may have scratched the surface just a smidgen.

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