Today I sat in the room, two hands were entwined subtly and in the gripping of those two palms I saw hypocrisy. I rambled on to the gaiety of my compatriots, verbal dysentery spewing from my mouth, spraying everyone with diseased literary feces. As usual, they opened their ugly mouths to swallow it down like Sahara-parched wastoids. I wonder even now, how one person can commit acts of infidelity and be crucified, but for another it is just okay, unnoticed, the shadow of a lamppost shifting in the lights of a passing car.
The insect net of hearsay seems inescapable. In the drawer, they sit contemplated upon and damned for the thought. Dreaming with them is wonderful or awful, but the trappings of each beckon me to submission. It is funny--the exposure--the jester's script. The clown is suddenly no good when he hands you the rotting corpse of an animal, it's limbs tied off in grotesque sutures, the blood dry on its fur, the guts hanging out like the rancid streamers of a party no one came to. Why didn't he tell a joke? Maybe he hasn't told a single joke so far. Maybe you're worse for laughing, stupider for the shit-dripping grin that you haven't had to tattoo on yet. Talk, laugh, drip...drip...drip.
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