Fooled again, it’s so lovely to look at. The way in the way again, it’s so touching if it’s true. Spring heeled and moon honed, we move between cases. Sun kissed and world wept, we rise from our sleep of the just. The sword cleaved from the stone, the wasp that hitched a ride, it’s the glistening of the armaments and the ice cream truck orchestral. The gloom remains unmoved, the old man growls, the fustigated heart laments. These green and fervid days growing all through the stolid debris another false flag here in the world of the dead.
The hills and fields go green and yellow and bell blue, this brief flourish before the long burning summers and falls. There’s no accounting for all the asphalt and concrete, the slabs and box tombs that glare out in open fury as they too slowly turn into the earth. There’s no accounting for all the flocks and packs and cliques that squander everything they touch. It is the age of the fool in the year of the ox on April fool’s. There ought to either be a discount or a multiplier.
I’m the sort of fool that’s always beat up and bug bit. I’m the sort of fool always in the company of wolves. The periphery teems with bird and beast, while boys on motors live out their chosen musical genre, throw away wheelies and fear set deep in their baby eyes. I sit and smoke while neighbors mix their lawns and wash their cars. Most of us mostly what we aren’t, excluded categorically from the far branches and the better fortune tellers. Fads and filler while the named and the thrillers catch every necessary bouquet. Stunt work and one offs while all our stories are stolen. Punch lines and walk offs, life and death a joke when they’re yours.
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