8 to 6.
I’m painting my nails the color of lies from now on.
Somewhere in my wild gesticulations, the ones that sculpt a big bubbly facade made of air, they’ve become hypnotized by smiles and the subtle crescendos of laughter that zig zagging their way out of smog filled lungs.
Why not? The only thing more fleeting than first impressions is the truth.
I suck my coffee down at the oasis of the water cooler, fantasizing about syllables, sex, and syntax. I send an invisible scowl in the direction of yet another man-child swimming in a suit that glints of syntheticity when the sun stretches it taught against his inarticulate thighs, and wonder whether it makes a difference whether one is “stimulating” or “tit-illating” in the grand scheme of things.
As if tits every did anything for anyone.
I walk on the beach of a thousand weeks and kneel to grab a handful, only to realize they jostle with each other for a place in the perfect palm of your plans, but eventually slide through your hands into the abyss of all little granules of life lost. You find there’s one clinging for dear life to a cuticle. This will be the one that changes your life. You’ll combust it on the end of a lit cigarette and wedge it into a gyrri where the pressure from hours of inarticulate conversation and games of peakaboo will miraculously turn it into the diamond you’ve spent all this time searching for.
Jackpot.
You know, I see clearest in a smoke filled room? Its as if the wheeze of exhalation is the effect of a ring on the tines of your ribs, and this wickid music to my ears is the very pied piper that beckons the grand truths out of the magic eight ball air.
Who needs a warm body when they’ve got a pack of muratti.
