Click here for a door to open, a fish to bite, a lemon to weep, a fraud to step out of his sad forest clothing and show us his all.
Click here for the poet who writes adverts, raising our cultural awareness and letting slide his misgivings. l am gun-slingered, circus-trained, developing ulcers and gravel in my consciounce don’t know how to spell consciounce and more to the point niether does my aromatic, wickedly dancing, fully engrossed mobile phone.
I’m a hotchpotch, a patchwork-quilt, asymetrical, a bumpy mountain road, threatening to tip, innocently, blissfully unaware traffic into the abysse below me. l am fairy studded, mis-managed, and gruesome, in the nicest of ways.
l hammer on doors in the middle of the night, distributing luxury items such as highly expensive perfumes and caviar.
l rotate the moon,
causing innocent Iandslides and mixed reactions to the Grey Scorpian’s advice on how to keep your grip on your individual version of reality from slipping, . from my room.