The inventor of the hand buzzers squeaky lung.

Let me begin, where toothpaste drips from your chin,
Refreshed by the sleep that washes away any sin.
Your eyes are pink and temples grey,
Clustered groups with nothing to say,
Want to go but have to stay.
Glue myself together and walk away.
Something feels alright but it must be wrong,
Another Saturday morning yellow tongue.
Living a life in suspension,
Too many obstacles clog your third dimension.
Can’t stop until you vanish without a trace,
What ever makes you feel tall drains the colour from your face,
WD40 backgrounds and a lap dancer,
Is not a cure or help, with any answer.
9 times of 10 you know, and believe in everything,
8 times out of 10 though it does not mean a thing.
Some people just grow to despise,
The look of stupidity in tinned apes eyes,
A compost heap with teeth, who doesn’t think twice,
Screws up your mind with useless advice.
Interstellar rat trap, I’m looking for a cat flap.
Blend possessions to make a paste,
Take your life and all it lacks,
Then use it to smooth out any cracks.
You think you know but lost the manual,
Hang around for the mindless man,
Who tries to make sense of his scruffy diagram.
Cardiac arrest and shouting shoes,
Sinking fast and born to lose.

by simon
posted on 07/03/2008