Inner Thawing

Drab diatribes from fat-assed sycophants in greased up frilly suits. "TipTop" nip-tuck Starbucks babblers barfing through multi-coloured Blackberries. Encrypting crack dealers crunch down on caramelized jiffy pop buzzkills who buy bags of bullshit at full price. They can sell you a house. They can sell you a dead mouse. Stupid boys and girls slapping the cosmic salami and calling it spirituality. Sliding a slice of overpriced sugar pie under the door crack of junkified craziness. Salt stained and stinking of emotional hibernation disgraces but no one notices past the shades and nightclub faces of the party-life trying to fuck their way out of loneliness but finding themselves flagellating a dog-eared deck of cards, sitting in their underwear on a cot next to a ticking clock, a limp cock. Picked flowers ploughed into paper and presented by your dreams to you upon awakening. Stare into your mind you dumb parasite, you juiced-up chump, you sexy slut, you weak-kneed mutt, a glutton for punishment waiting by the phone for job interviews to houses to huge prostates to coffins. The gods must be crazy? No, the gods are fucking manic depressive.

That being said, it is spring, whether you like it or not and....