Fighting Down the Uphill Battle

Circulation and sitcomstance play the mode toward the fall of inertial impetus as we struggle in our dealy lives, floundering like fission dried water, flapping with the humor of the moment lost at sea, see? Shiver my timbre (I’m thinking of good vibrations on the beach, boys) and sound the alarm, I wait twice as fast as anyone else and am arrived in time for a tie. Knot the best of circumstention on the desserted ice-scream beach (told you so) of make-do, sandwinched in like tweezers, but it’ll do in a pinch. I hold tight and row with the punches while doing my darndest (sock it to me) to keep from being clabbered on the port brow by a weigh laid cheap shot (milking the sour situation like the dastardly curds they are) from the corporate shooting gallery: It’s duck season (put your head down and hope they miss) and no time to act sweet or candy coy. I trim my sales and hype for the best, but wit comes around goes a round in the ring-around-the-collar boxing mismatch (put it in the cardboard receptacle, fold the flaps over, tape the seams, take it to the back garden and bury it for springtime) to catch me between (ducks) right up from where I’m not looking, see? Saw. (Saucy git) A real cut up and down to the bone of the perpetual chase, my life hanging in the valence like curtains in a mortuary (neat and well learned sails looking for an island of peace within which to plant the culmination of one’s life-long quest) to dress up a stitched together dying (just be)cause (I said sew, so there). My allotment of times out has the games keepers blowing on the clocks, stepping off their flags, waiving their whistles and whetting their penal tease in my farce, scoring me up won side and down the other like nobody’s business but yours (you’re the reader of record here, so pay attention and keep your ticket stub close to your vestige of comprehension) with a word to the wise that is so much early mourning waves tweeting a sharp note to the audient cowed. What a hoot. Another day another holler refused out to hog the swollen food forethought. Owl’s swell that ends swill.

If I had you by the ear would you listen? If I reached and caught your eye would you see? If I held you by the tongue what would you say about it? If I poked you in the nose would you sniff at it? If I touched you with my story would you feel for me? Arbitrary specifics define the moment by moment revelation of the arriving future as I step forth and noticed that I’ve been here, playing in the sands of time, before. Massive inconsequentialities weigh down upon the swan-ey river day of mundanial sludge and drudge like a white bird in a golden cage on a garbage scow of commercial enterprizes, alone with his silent song, giving the general populace something to think about, but nothing to feed their minds. I must fly.

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