Musings from a vague angle of the room By Brock Gates I’m staring at a candlestick un-lit and unattended, it bears no smell and no purpose other then decorative shit. I wonder if it desires love or passion or even just a light like a man who really wants to bum a cig, and I just cast my gaze upon it and it’s marbley bed. I just wish I could call upon the portraits of dead-past me’s. And let them know what the future is like and how loud I can cough and perhaps even ahem “gunzunheit” oh however you spell it aka sneeze. So I sit at the table tip tapping away with texts, and I require bread and milk just like a french poet in distress. I hate the tropical decor of this landlocked room. and I wish I could zoom in with ocular super eyeballs and burn them with laser vision in the scurrility. Ben sits over on the couch coughing and doodling away. I swear the bearditis will eat his heart and face one day. Regardless of all that I see kimpossible hair flipped upside down and the massive rug of a beard screams and lights the way to my face and brings forth images of an inked pen signing away the day I die *
Posted on: Sat, 10 Aug 2013 05:07:32 +0000
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