Crunktacular

(staring at the lake listening to Baroque masterworks)

Hourglass figures fine and smooth drunk loosening of keyboard inhibitions, you scrivener with cuff sleeves loose, verbose, sit at the rear of a kitchen caboose. Regale with tales of a genial giant, and how postmodernity got screwed up getting Y2K-compliant. “It’s another tech bubble,” just wait and see – “I’m selling my earthly possessions and moving to a fantasy.”

I’m not your shining knight, I’m the king of daze. The man you’re in love with doesn’t exist –his hair is turning grey. Meet so many women, like a revolving door. These weak social links leave me gasping on the floor. Can you breathe through society snorkels? I’m suffocated by our city’s legitimate desperation, just elected president of an insecure nation.

Blame yourself for curiousity, though they dish out death penalties at the first sign of pomposity. What curiousity gave you will kill you too. What you deserved is what you rue. You say you won’t be it but it's what you do. That is hell, the chasm between talk radio and pillowtalk, between red carpets and plank-walks, between “shut up” and lip locks.

He said "Honest men believe others are honest, but a liar doesn’t trust anyone so he makes prisons.” and "the best laws were all invented by liars. Trickledown morality's what feeds the fire.” Inspired by libertarians, or were they false-freedom-barbarians? All in favour of life, death to strife and the safe and responsible use of a carving knife. But this from a boy who never took a wife?