My Mind Me

After a bad long time, things do all they can do on the outside, but the mean ole inner voice won’t gently blow out the candle. With swirling storm winds, a mean toothless grin cat-like hisses, spits-on, then licks its thumb and boney index finger to squeeze, and kill the lit-up candle wick that won’t quit its glow. So the grin screeches a wail in ecstasy, using the mean Carl Orff tune.

Chichita Banana erupts with a megaphone, yet fails because Caribbean voices and bongos get louder to squeal a choppy song out of tune.

Hoo Hoo Hah Hah, Goo Goo Gah Gah, it moans and mean screeches harsh, clicks fast Deutsche-like with fists. Auctioneers scream bunched-up in a bathroom, that doesn’t got Latin but Deutsche directions. That means an anal, and surely rectal, low I.Q. Nazi balding barbershop quartet’s near, and change dress to sheets that prove test scores, as they hit paw’s homebrew, and burn crosses.

To add at being tragic and stupid, or more-so tragically stupid, they have crossed eyes and brown rotting teeth that decay with inbred hate-speak to show their true worth in study and rehab. The folk kind that other folks see, but ignore over and over again in these as all times, don’t let the bad history get wrote, for the victors aren’t bad.

They walk out on their buddy’s backwoods gas station on acid, with a homebrew chaser.

In a usual blank trance, they think that the stuff they slip-on the floor, doesn’t smell bad and has a damp snuff look, so they feel it with a pointy fingertip on thumb rub. Since it feels smooth, a little lumpy, and smells like it’s got mint, they dip it like snuff, and do a rap that ends up as a mix with Götterdämmerung (at first glance don’t wanna translate) tune, before translating The Flying Dutchman: I’m Gunna Kiww the Wabbit by that loud booming guy, with little wings over his ears who must be deaf, contra’s Nietzsche with Wagner and choppers in Nicaragua, and with the song he hoops, hollers, and two-step knee-slaps with a steel guitar and a homey Kracker Jax kazoo.

Here, there, then, and now are grimy teeth, skull and crossbones on black hats with silver-gray piping, coffee bad breath, black boots, triple-ought buck Mauser Three-inch Magnums, spotted spooky sheets, with thick track-marks like truck tires tore-up laying mushed and ignored on the interstate to maybe get run over alot.

It’s there, and I see it, but can’t read, grasp, kick, choke, and it won’t flush so got to let it sit and get soft, until it sultry laughs, while its cross-eye gaze to cough a yellow, real slick wad that’s grainy in spots.

Don’t care that it oozes from a mouth corner to make look-downs, seeing that it gets the sleeve all slippery, and sticky by a chin wipe.

Then it tries to make sure, all the stinky brown and green skinny snakes come-out with groans to circle, and hide the true clog culprit.