Dec 9 - four sweet paragraphs

Face the dragon and click until the ticket says go home; it’s mid-evening in winter. Music loud enough to inspire, but not overpower; Thursday, stomach rumbling, predictability, words go down easy, and here are the images: jello shots sucked off women twice our age, fiendish dominatrix leather bought incognito for devilish pleasure, the myriad squalor of the downtown – if you aren’t a freak here then you simply don’t belong. The safety-first bitches and grandma admin queens can’t save us now; we're tied to this life boat drifting out to sea-space, to SETI land, talking with aliens finally, negotiating a favourable treaty before the mother ship lands. It’s not easy, moving every minute; I want a nice park bench to rest my totties – but who can frickin' concentrate surrounded by these hotties… (see, I went to an all boys school, there was discipline and goodness – the importance of the rules.)

You are stylish and smooth, indiligently froo; conspicuous in effortlessness, impressing with your prescience. The vagrants fragrant push flowers on me in the middle of my dinner – my stunningly by-the-way dependable-on-Friday lady says “no no, don’t let it come to those - I’m much too humble for your red rose.” This sidewalk is where I get ideas, foot falls like bicycles in regular rolls; we interview us earnestly breaking into strolls: where did you come from? why did you leave - what are you selling and where do I get mine? We all wanna get some – and hence these obtuse interviews. I shove my obstreperous mic in your flush face; your lips go loose, lighting up the place. See that mannequin, pale by the door – you can be just like her if you lose a few more…

Tune town marigolds, daisies by the fistful, I sigh so clear and you accuse me of the wist – it goes with territory, the job of a critic; but better than obsessing about spelling and enclitics. I once studied Greek – yes, mostly on a dare – it was Greek to me; it was, all of it, there. No longer could I pretend toward ignorant bliss, so I translated words, they made sense at the time, it was a one-way relationship and really, that’s fine. But manic mannerisms are the latest word in cool; it doesn’t make sense, yet the blog dogs all drool – at the end of the day, which of us is fooled?

I talked all night to call-centre flunkies – lonely on the phone and begging for a smile; after hundreds of hang-ups there’s still that extra mile, a sucker calls it hope, to a cynic it’s the payoff; for logicians like me it’s law of evening averages. Every so often we hit pot of gold rainbow-edged bonanzas and then it’s lucky lotto leap-laughter into each other's arms, far from harm for the moment and happy in embrace, there's that one special place; to say hello or goodbye in a pure moment of class; brush the velvet elbow of that very special lass; open up your eyes before the rainbow meets the sun, evaporating dew like the things we did for fun. I’m here if you need me, but I’m all over, too – and I’m hearing that you need me; that’s exactly what I do.

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