Ain't It Funny

That "true love" rhymes with "murder suicide" and so on and so on, on and on, down the road, tunneled and velociticized, and driving like you just don't give a fuck or have an outstanding ticket, on the highway, interstate 20 and markum ranch road, if you're into that sort of thing, precision and whatnot, or clarity, whatever, articulation is overrated, or some word meaning that, most of the time, I can't really be positive about most things, read into the polarity whatever suits your particular negativist tendencies: learned, nurtured, neutered, enfuckingdemic. But we are both adults, consenting and lecherous, committing petty theft of sincerity and objectivity, in any way at all, in all of the ways that crush, swerve, wobble; teeter meet brink, sanity meet sleepy. Of that I am sure. I saw that little thing you wrote in the car and it melted me.