The more frequent patron rests his case in the
alley way; the one where the poets are hidden.
And that is no "store," that is a money grubbing
business citizen; no stock exchange for this slave.
But he gives in, and he is attracted.

You ask the question, "Were these really dry
martinis?" and the answer comes back, "No, the
plants would have died weeks ago." Again, you
ask the question, "Is this guy any better
than he should be?" and the answer comes
back, "No, he was never a man."

This gives rise to investigation. Back and
forth it's Mr. Profile and Mr. Prints.
Both have ten thumbs and a parking
space next to the body with their
name on it that says "Mr. Profile and
Mr. Prints." Eventually they have no part
in anything particular.

When he admits being attracted he says,
"Yes, I admit being attracted, but not so much
as to change the course of history," which
is omitted to protect the Duchess (yes,
the gorgeous sister). The poets find difficulty
in breathing on the second day. This is met
with a lesser sense of concern: not much
can be expected from a selection of stolen
lungs.

"In conclusion," the Pisces boasts with a sick and
brittle demeanor even less stimulating than those
found in the average grade school speech criteria which
has not been seen since the age of iron literalism and
posture, or the nineteen fifty nine counter-structure
outcries, "the stability of the being's rational
blueprint compensates for the ongoing procedures
to manipulate said being's outlook on social behavior."
Of course you can't shovel this kind of shit
without a permit and pilot's licence, so the
poets took to an alternative set of methods.

There's that word again: an empire's fear of
the people seeing things as more than just
another lucky heartbeat, an empire's fear of
the people not getting dirty enough between
the hot sheets, and an empire's fear of
the babies not being cute enough to sell
the wigs and card tricks anymore.

The peak came, and it was missed, as the
ultimate premature ejaculation. Those who
survived were treated in the ass with the lenses
of ridicule and electronic make-over. Even
now rebirth is uncertain, which is a darling
way of saying we need to get proper
fucked.

So the sirens creep as the poets bolt. (A
succulent maneuver based on many an ancient
play). The velvet curtain is torn to pave the
glass object's sidewalk. Let us prevent any
chance for the course of history, or thinking,
or that, or this.
 
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