Savages By Noon

figure eleven) Open thy doors, O Lebanon, that the fire may devour thy cedars. 

Like this, the distance to the hills is as flat as a cosmic whale opening itself to water, the cupboard, and a tin of beans. So see it this way but over there isn't going anywhere soon either. The days won't run as long as they should. Then some of its hours will fly right by. I've been waiting for the same dance after dinner for decades, bowl in hand. Here, hold this. 

Now's the time for a proper clean up. Not so much as a peep, now it's for real. The UmperKunst and all of the little stone holes that bravely steward the line against the slippery edge of the darkness that's beyond the gathering veil. Where its hypocrisy is an endorsement from the rasping choir that is gathered around this pile of penises like it's a man ready for a drive.

So many of us have been silent for so long. These are the people's resources, the tools of its culture and they should be persuaded to find within themselves a voice that's common and clear. But for the moment they're steadfast only, as silent as all manner of quiet things can be that are broken or scared and need spoons for ill or cloth for quiet. So first, you’ll have to wrap this sleeve around your waist. You'll go around your legs then work up from there. Leave some room for the breechcloth, it's what I'd do.
This pious sack of a fart flaps whose flag hangs from our own fart pole now. A moment can resemble everywhere and the president of my hands won't finish its room. You can't fly away from that sad shit stained cube you're in. You can't rumble into the alley, in the back where it's as safe as bread should be. You can't get away from a house by it's own dreaming.

So take your bucket and leave your troubles over there.