Fan blades make yellow lights flicker. In my world nothing and everything is backwards and sideways. The colors of the wheel have all moved one to the right. Red appears yellow and blue appears red, so on and so forth. In my world street lights shine a soft, dull green and cigarettes set fire to the gasses emitted by lighters. Sound is tasted and touch is smelled while the wind bends the blades of grass leaving the feathers on the trees undisturbed. The plant life makes noise in an attempt to attract a mate to make love to. Humans are asexual, reproducing like dandelions, one dies and fifty more take it's place. And still like dandelions, people are uprooted early to be given as childlike bouquets and the ones who are already dead are blown on, their seeds spreading in the wind.
Horror makes you laugh and comedy scares you. We are all living the book written about our lives. Whether it is written in advance or after the fact is irrelevant. There is no choice so there is no hope. You do what you were meant to do and every rabbitt dropping has a meaning. We all hate being here but none of us can leave. We don't live here it is just a place we visit in my mind when we step out of time. The walls don't have ears but they do have tongues, their voices confine me. Walls come in all sorts of colors and personalities but they are walls all the same.
Hicks drive old, foreign cars with bumper stickers singing the praises of their favorite brands of tobacco and their favorite country singers. Punks drive pick-ups and wear spurs on their combat boots, line dancing has replaced the mosh pit. Body hair is attractive and we all love old people. And fat people. And old, fat people, especially if they have body hair. Of course their are flying cars, but only children are allowed to drive them. And they ground their parents from the telephone. There is no internet, there are no video games and television only broadcasts The Nature Chanel. The Atkin's Diet makes you fat. There is not enough food to feed all the fatties walking around, churned out by Oscar Meyer factories, so they eat the skinny people, sometimes whole.
Paintings automatically conjure up symphonies and orchestras and death metal in the heads of the viewers. There is no rape of any kind, our environment is still intact; weird, twisted, but still intact. And when I close my eyes I see cut-out Valentine hearts, glistening with blood against black velvet backdrops. They don't beat, they never have. They aren't given, only recieved. I want your bloody heart.
When I close my eyes I see black inked newspapers rolling off the press, the paper is hot and the ink is wet. On their assembly line they pass through a razor blade, it is white and irradescent, but it does not cut the paper, only the words. In half. Ea ch a nd ev ery on e.
When I close my eyes I see floral print bedspreads coming to life, the thorns of roses drawing blood from the soft skin of lovers while fragrance fills the air. Rooms become overgrown as vines and trees take root in the dirty clothes on the floor. And when the lovers break their embrace and look for their discarded clothes, they are nowhere to be found for these plants feed on dirty clothes.
When I close my eyes I see the U.S. Army in camoflauged clown suits with sticky, oil based make-up on their faces. It makes the sweat bead and keeps the drops from running, racing and finally rolling off. They march through the center ring with M16s in hand, fingers on the triggers. I think they just want the cotton candy to fuel nuclear submarines in Antarctica. The dancing bears told me so.
When I close my eyes I see Peter Pan in a swordfight with Robin Hood while on the side Maid Marian is bitch slapped by Tiger Lily as Wendy holds her down. But at the end Captain Hook and Prince John kill all five of them with cotton candy rocket launchers the militant clowns gave them.
