Stream of Thought

To regain the night by the light of day with sunshine coming in bars through the shutters that were meant to bar out all light and music as though sound could have been stopped because of its dealings with light some time ago when lightsabers and stunner beams and proton torpedoes could stop the planes of Abraham from bearing witness to a deluge of animals called Boxer, made into glue after all his troubles and his pains had gotten him no pension, no kingdom, only a sticking-spot on the back of a Post-it note with the final words “more light” scribbled with dying breath as Werther made his way from his chair, with half a head blown off, and his veins opened, to the floor, to be kissed by the eldest son on the lips until he expired into a pool of blood, bandage and steel that no man can enter without leaving something for the beggar playing his guitar on the ground covered in his rags, and dwarfed by the immense skyscrapers covered with neon lights and plasma that reads Hong Kong – yours to discover and recover in a Freudian slip on every British tongue. Why Falkland was fought for with such semerity, if I can be so bold as to use a word I just made up, that mixes temerity, which I just remembered and severe, for what holds us together in a society is not the laws, but the hope of the benefits we may gain from those laws. We are not afraid of injury but our right to revenge ourselves against the mighty Condor of Kissinger and his lackeys at Chicago. Few can imagines a world that is so fraught with misery and discontent, but fudge was good that Tuesday morning instead of breakfast. And yet another 2007 Christmas has come and gone and no presents did I receive which has made me a dull child, with worms that are my chamber pots. I have no two girls and single cup, to find in the Yellow fellow some name or fame, and thousands of numbers and obituaries of a media that has long since been replaced by floppy disks and additions of space continuums, that hoover the funds of the poor and don’t think twice without a gun blasting through the keyhole of the door of the hotel that has all the better food, for as God is my witness, I did not shoot JFK that day in Dallsa, nor did I shoot JR for wearing that awful ten-gallon hat, and roping in some fine young buck he called what was his name…Bodacious…the most infamous bull in bucking fucking history. He died for breaking too many rider skulls, and will live in infamy for evermore. But let’s save Edgar Allan Poe for some later time, when I have nothing lefts to say, as thought I have said so much to begin with. But and for because however since further and forget all nothing everything none and fun with a bun a bowl breakfast fruit vitamins an egg Paris Hilton on the David Letterman show, hyperlinks lead to hyperthinks and ideas no longer need to be the esoteric unGoogleable domain of snake-oil experts who can’t read anything other than Dr. Seuss without hitting the old bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label and finding their world suddenly collapse in a final trance that lasts longer than its final solution of blended goodness and fine malts that make love together in amber tones that reflect the eyes of the beholder in a glass that fits in the palm of your hand in today’s techno-adver-poetic times we call post after new ages and times with Weathermen who whistle instead of blow things up and Bobby D. came and went without giving anyone an erection just making himself a pile of steaming dough and never saying Grace, instead of saying Amen, before Church can sing her cathedrals full of love, if I may be so bold as to invent a repetition, to be honest with myself and my friend, the reader, that didn’t know what to expected that day he wandered into my shop and tried on some of my robes and remembered a certain tailor he once knew who could fit any cloth to his buttocks without making him look fat, but I wasn’t that. I needed his attention all to myself and out of my shop I flung him, into the open opus day and he found the apple coded that Da Vince was certainly not thinking about when he killed the Horcrux in his laboratory of wizardry and magic instead of finding the cure for cancer or the cure for boredom which is even more cancerous than any tumor or Timorese from the East who has slits for eyes, brown skin, black hair, does not wear shoes, his shorts are blue with a white Nike swoosh on them, and wears no shirt on his back because there is a knife there stuck in from his countryman who wanted his dignity and fled with his wife to Thailand and fed off of mangos and marital vows for as long as Shangri-La was meant to last until he sobered up, in my vain attempt to make sense of all of this somehow, and found that he was the murderer of his own father and it was no his wife was actually his mother and the magic question he failed to answer was not answered by man, but required more thought than that which saved Corinth or some other Greek city that doesn’t matter to the point I’m tiring to make, dear reader, is that in the laws and legal things of our fine city-state where a man can go three paces without having to go four back is that when for without any…com and what you get in this equation of terms and germs and steel and guns and diamonds in the sky with other precious stones and stoners is finally to wrap up by way of introduction what I’m trying to get at finally hopefully figuratively speaking if I may be so bold as to entertain a few ideas for you and then make my exit from stage left as the curtains dropped and I was dancing and grinding in the back with that black girl who was a grade younger than me but who seemed like she has had so much more sex than I had, and was very very very very very very very vey unsensical and never got to the…com