I might be a little messed up at the moment with this narrative style poem, but in the interest of artistic license I've decided to re-post.....
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I am all seven none. I am rudite, a carnelian snowflake beshit with the blustering icy shattered-glass of fibrous taut, I am all bohemian with the silent null eyes of suicide twice. I am the train wreck nightmare, a sea wracked aboulic; with wandering eyes and a false smile to forearm the strange. Why. Why. Why. Idealism, eccentrics, loneliness, and it all finds you; as the man tells you Hedy Lamarr, was quipped in Blazing Saddles, brawls with a thick Scottish rouge; thumbs a cigarette; no reply. Look out to the sun and nod, Jesus, I think.... I think of Celia Johnson, Anne Savage, Mary Astor... finally I look to him, 'Blues are out...' I say, 'They are way out... perhaps over there', I point towards the sun, its not out at all, and there were never any blues, I'm only hoping to distract him from the broken latch on my pants, where I notice a thick thatch of pubic hair had escaped, ruffling freely in the wind. I am ashamed and by nature draw close to him. 'Water canon, would drop temperature, roughly, 12?'.... he looks at me, no comprehension, screws up a ticket stub real tight, to a kind of corkscrew like city of Sodom-- mottled purple flecks of adman ink, 'Christ, is not a religion' he says eruditely, waving his finger, he pops the ticket stub into his mouth, runs it around palate nodding, 'Beauty is not a religion!' again raising his finger, I have a sense of dread as he steps towards me, clump- clump- chewing like a fat cow, his eyes portray deep thought, but simply chewing and nodding, and chewing, musing like French libertine, 'Fuck is not a religion', and this one I agreed with him, and showed my appreciation of his rebuff with a slap on the knee, by now the paper was paste, and I found myself imitating his chewing, so enraptured was I in his words. 'Gourd-leaves are not a religion', I tried to point out that he had made an error with this, that no one had ever considered gourd-leaves religious at all, but every time I opened my mouth to speak, he would rest his index finger on my tongue, and so it became exasperating. 'Duty IS a religion!', he said hurriedly, Christ almighty! I thought, as I spat on the floor and looked out to the sun, he timidly crawled into the corner, and began to whine like a caribou. I then decided to piss openly onto the crown of his head, a great gush watered his shirt a taint yellow, 'Wonderful day for it' I muse, running a spiral train with the last dregs, squeezed out through deep urethra muscles, he endures it wonderfully, and now I realised, I had an excuse to conceal my pubic thatch without shame. The man, though still there, had gone from the present, and returned to default, I could see this from his complete lack of expression that his mind had returned to the ether-- so 'The man', (now only a husk), pressed both his hands flat against the wall, and was pushed from behind into it by an invisible force (like a refuse compressor), so his head lay between both hands and looking left towards me, before his flesh accordion like, or like the clattering furling of blinds was flattened, until all that remained was a chalky outline of a pained figure, twisted so grotesquely, I found it hard to believe it was once a man at all!