::10:17:07::

::: Indulge :::

Existence, survival then...

Indulge!

An average sot drifting in a pine cloud.  Repressively smug - ADD laden - twenty seven-year old - obsessive compulsive - laid quarterly - stoneaholic - urban half-ass punk artist - on the brink of scantily clad terracide - spanking words to their death at pencils' length.  Chasing the elusive cherry-highs of life, crying for the kinetic personal elope into the man, HIM.  Bouncing off life, stifling the soul with cavorts on the brain waiting for the static bar code of life to dissolve into a cauldron of fluffernutter.  Genuine action fleeting, thinking the next spin, or another would hold the slow cripple.  And that dastardly curdling belly laugh acceptance that this block of existence would prop up in some dramatic pitter-patter of life.

Dripping lies on the soul.
Lies helping each other along.
Lies had rationale. Layered truth.
That's how easy they came.

Belief.  Belief in the star quality of existence.  Belief that it is some surreal trip made for my chuckle. Belief  that each day is the start, the concentrated precursor to the revolution.  Belief that the verb in life would come fore and provide, shepherding not as a parent but as the ideal-idiocy of a contrived novel plane.  Belief that an emotionless animate would swoop,

anoint me the golden- hearted-celluloid-mutant-wood-nymph-bravado-laden exception to all their rules. and be off leaving me in eternal Joseph Campbell bliss. 

Belief. 

Past tense future fantasy justified.
Tock.
Tock.
Tock means it can end.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Only a time machine, affording the lapse and shock of time, new time, could have alerted me to the oncoming compression of existence.
Before I get myself into trouble, here goes.  The grasped literary wound at double zero.  Synopsis of the pram of it all - a disembodied spew of verse setting the scene, a grand tale of limited novelty.

If written, it must be.

Commencing.  .  .

Written by: ~ Ryan O Roy