I'll wing it. New hit single called, "Not a Single Hit"

I'll find fame and abuse it. That's what my friend Wayne said. Little guy.

Or whatever his name was.

I'm bad with names, Cuz.

I admit it. I ain't ashamed, Cuz.

And most can't
I don't play games
Done with the whole thing
I got my own dream
I realized I was always gonna have pure gold in my bank vault west of the best thing ever, my deposit of thought is a pure thing, not a vein of rot...

Whatever the fuck it is it is awesome. Fuckin philosophy blossoming into actual perception of life in the dog shit.

If they could they would talk the way I do. And they don't. I mean everyone everywhere.

If they would, they'd dodge the shit the way I dare to.

"What is this nitwit babbling on about?" You're probably saying.

What I'm saying is I'm insane!

And it's fucking amazing. Kinda scary.

Very indusive to the use of certain derrided and often delighted infusions of what Hitler's doctor gave him in 1945, except with new and better incluences. Oh. And I'm dying.

The shit does fly from Germany. Sweet. That Germany. Disturbingly, it makes the best things in every capacity. Blurring my vision.

Actually I'm seeing a pretty castle with tall spires reaching up into the blue vastness. I'm crashing. These things happen. Take a nap. Down to the last tablet. Tap that. That's a protective layer that lasts for decades it's not just good it's enduring too.

Enduring. Like a verdict. A certainty of occurrences. A murder victim, with a note attached to the corpse and the date of the crime stated in plain rhyme.

Even stated the lame reason. The furnace of fury to end all blurry demented fits of rage and dirty turds thrown at nerdy waitresses.

Enduring like a Nazi soldier in the furry of deep Russian winter, freezing his legs off for a cause that had forgotten him. No clothes, no ammo, no more feeling in his feet or hands, no more driving around killing and raping the locals. As it stands.

Anyway. Back to the frameless and incoherent motley muster of voices heard in the head of some dimwitted nutcase when he's halfway dead.

Let's talk about um. Stuff. I'm a useless.

Well...

Maybe I'm a virus.

I'm a Nightmare on Elm Street.

I'm a bacterial infection gone into sepsis. Have I said that before? It's a beautiful and ethereal way to describe my entire decorum.

Me. My slimey but smiley life. Deforming. A chriogenically frozen and thawed, hibernating evolutionary misprint. Easily delivered in small doses. Its a modified microbial thing laying dormant until springing to life in pursuit of gruesome new shit daily.

Get off my canoe. I'm trailing my words and I'm sailing my whaling boat to Santa Cruz.

It's a ruse. I'm steady and we'll and I'm giddy with glue.

You ruined it. Boo.

I'm suing.
© JacobAlive