intra view

Go to interview with bosa nova fusion freeform jazz synth booming in your ears. In a cafe. Panel orders flat white.  The oldest most boring coffee idea.  That’s what everyone used to get from the little chippy van at dickenson rd market in the 80s.  No.  it wasn’t cool then.

green tea while desperately clinging towards the sinking wood of wakefulness (oh yeah meditation, is that like mindfulness?), drowning in a teacup sea of google analytics which I don’t care about and last night’s rajasic curry which I do and cannot possibly be in my rectum.

I am tamasic, lethargic.  Hits, clients, staff bonding, a yoga teacher who was too stoned.  Get another one.  Longing to leave.  Longing to play in the leaves.  I was a leaf when you met me.

I was a thief locked away with the lovable petty criminals apart from the one who wanted to stab my neck with a pool cue or the one who was in for murder.  His mum probably loves him or did and I shudder to think of her and his probable current freedom and prospects or lack of.

These messages are too lazy to be called subliminal.  The planet’s most powerful creations are running sub-optimally, eating waste products.  Tapping, screening, screaming. Drinking bubbly, acidic, black syrup.  Boob lay.

I have awoken for a five sense door championship.  Constantly ignited, firing pistons on an ever ready, ever present battery of electrochemical potential blurring auras and burning chi.  Nothing can be destroyed.  I am nihilistic, narcissistic.  Wheetabix shit.  Staring at my own body looking for changes, I am still a man.  Look at my muscles.  Due to cycling and being thin and a low calorific intake.

Angry scallie screams wildly at middle class woman who keeps her composure and stares her down.  Are you OK?  She is.

Market street is dead and people are catching what it had.  X-factor crud control the cobbles.  Their voices wobble.  Desperation riddles them like digital AIDS.  Hearing aids allow old people, who know a thing or too about unexplained mutations and crystallised ginger, hear us.  Sometimes they switch them off for a bit of peace without ever really striving for it.  Yes, we know there was a war.  You didn’t stop it.

People march to the beach but it’s always to  someone else’s drum, not quite in time.  Everyone was leaving when you arrived. They got cold.  Their feelings changed.  No, I don’t want to go in the sea.  I’m getting cold.  It’s dark. It’s not the same as before.  We were happy then.

Time is wasted dipping into television.  The neon disaster.  Controlled plasma explosions.  Blues in the sky are an unexplained orange.  It’s the street lights.  It’s people’s houses.  None of them are orange.  Do you think you can trick me like I’m a child? Well you can.

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Author: camelfox

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