|Raw like the ditching school and asking questions kind of raw|
Dull as a day effect of these veils they're curtains deep in the fastness of a room. Tales of the hints we've shed, drain from our pockets fast as white sand. There's no hope so quiet or doubtful within the wall of our here. Lets read, we'll pool together like gathering reeds. Stripes on the tin let's read, Hortense, Philomene, and Baird let's read - Erin Tears, My Garden of Dull, Behind The Cat Records
The exuberant souls at the next table are laughing and spitting up. One enthusiastic guychik leans over and slaps me on the back. He says to me very enthusiastically, Marry the goddamned combodian to the twisty white end and you'll see that 45 spin right on up. You'll see, He howls for effect then returns to his own.That's a cob batter making this world's belly burn, I know me a mean cob batter some.
I ask for more and instead receive this different, it's just different. This isn't the same, I tell them. Their method has changed I'm told. Their other is irrevocably lost or something. So what if I asked them, Where would you go? Only I'm persuaded to sit my ass back down. The hall is still and the ground is cold. The far end of the table curves slightly. It's like the neck of great red horse being called to ease its cockly gait.
Where you were, that'll be fine.
I explain that I'll have to start over again.
If you must, then so be it. Things will be different when you return. There should be a seat for you somewhere further down.
You'll see the bridge before that, The edges of my cards are bent and they're peeling. Travels inside the west of the Holy's hot hell are as dry as old Chalmers chapped cat, You'll see. Travels in the dirt of all things. That's how it can be spun, mean and wrong forever.