Set your sights on grand rejection. Spit into the vainglorious wind and supplicate the suffering - I can't tell if my brain's exploding. I can't stay in the present too long because the past sings a siren song. I don't want to think and I don't want to blink because then it stops. Just like the red and blue motherfucking cops. There's no need for any of our police to wear riot gear. That shit starts riots. Hear? Do you listen to the sounds of the drips and the drops? The whispering from eaves and the dank stench of rot? You're inside it, but you can't abide it. And you can't abide by it's rules because that shit is for straight up suckers.
And I could tell you it was like fog-drenched moonlight. I could paint you a skyline so bright. But I won't because it's too easy. I'll take the other easy route. Because you can picture an old woman, lying still, dark wood of the coffin, shine from the overhead lighting. Sound. Like ghost lightning. And you can picture the sedate black dress and the clutch of color from the flowers and you can listen to them fill you full of bullshit for hours. The real story is: she's dead. That's it. Ain't no fucking with some stories. But you can't let em fester and start to worry - so you let people like me dress it up for you. You say:
He captured that shit. And I know, it feels like that. From this side, too. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like all the "true" stories I've ever heard are about one sentence long.
Flash. Clasp hands. Bang the gong. But don't get it on.
Shit ain't appropriate.