Haydn's Hard Work

And aren't you sick of the piano yet? No? Well, how about sick of me? Because I do. Get sick. And then better again. Insert obvious statement of the century. Why are you always in such a hurry? I know you wonder how all these people got here and when are they going to leave, but stop and smell the honey, Honey, the ginger mixed with milk, sweet sweat and smoke, and remember that you have more to live for than you do to die for and that you can't argue with ignorance in the same way you can't make a bad driver good just by imparting knowledge or by swapping paint. Pant. Yeah. Right there. Just like that. Anyway, where was I? Before the bed? No, no, before the car, even. Oh, yeah. In the bath. Thinking about how I see you in the eyes of babies unmade and how I even I see you in the grey-blue of those already born, so go fuck yourself, Maury. Besides, you took my nickname and made it into a production (company), so I hated you from before. For someone who's so into adoption, you sure do make a big deal about blood lineage, but I guess its not you, personally, just your marionette strings being pulled by your biggest sponsor, Who's The Daddy, Inc. What is this? What have I become? A freak strife ad? Well, clear the ground for your rained parade and get your dick out of my mouth, "liberal" "media".

Its October, Criminal, and you know what that means, so come to me and explode in me like a fractal. Give me a bracelet of rain hung on a spider's web. Give me a necklace of sun captured in droplets draped over branches. Give me children. Take a year in your hand. Nothing makes me matter more than meaning, so take that which I trace on your skin in the quiet, pre-dawn, post-coital moments in our bed and flip it.