"relax the fraying wool
slacken ties and I'm
not to look at you in the shoe
but the eyes find the eyes"

Barbiturates, violent axioms aligned against the pragmatics and the prose of the priests, the paupers, the proles and the bourgeoisie. Falling through the pages of the prose, the priests the proles, the paupers and the prose, again, I find a dot of inspiration, fondling my mind, my thoughts, my way, and I stare. Offended, it stares back, wondering if it has a spot on its tie. Though not known to many, the spots of inspiration that cause me to fall through the pages of prose of the priests, paupers, popes, puppies and the proles, and sometimes the bourgeoisie, wear ties. Stylish ones that go well with their blazers, match their shoes, which instinctively match their belts. The belts are sequestered from the waist by pants, properly aligned with the hem, and complimented by a chain. The chain is connected to the watch, to time, to the leg bone, and to reason. The inspiration spawns from this reason, but does not return to it. The rational becomes irrational, and then the dot starts to have fun. It acts like it's going to catch me as I fly by, fall by, die by its side, but it lets me go, plummeting and spelunking into the depths of the text, the words, the prose of the priests, popes, paupers, proles, puppies, puppets, and once and a while, when I feel indulgent, the bourgeoisie.

"all the girls I hate
all teh words I hate
all the clothes I hate
how I'll never be anything I hate"

(lyrics from "the Dark of the Matinee" by Franz Ferdinand)

-ccm