Playing

In a garden watered with my Hideous self-doubt, a black rose grows shows its nose about the place space waste waste such a bloody waste this hideous thing, this mockery, is. It looks like the smell of feet and gives off the color of a dying cat's wail. It perforates the ground with no respect for borders sense reason rationale comfort contortionism or personal space. It is all my memories of childhood abuse stuffed into a little box of a man then turned inside out in a torrential outburst of relentless self-destruction bleeding out from every pore this this this THING I find myself staring at. It hangs over my head like a dirtied burrito rubbed on an open sore festering pustulating granulating decay into every Fibre of my Being it taunts me so. Relentlessly does it thrust undulations of lamentation and degradation to my station in place of an overwhelming sense of rightful belongation. Capricious overarching diatribe attributes my recollection toward a forward board hoard insistful of bleakened future rotting about the seams. My intellectual condensation falls off the tips of my tongues into beads of sweat on the morning dew. A ravenous vegemite overwhelms the necessity of the self on the way to destruction and decompresses the morning channel. A lipid bilayered highway is all that stands between me and the deepest reaches of the untold unfolding universe. A drop of sand in my eye rinses out the tears for mankind's earliest ancestors and is lost forever in a mountain of self-preservation. My feet wrinkle the grass' breath as I hope for a better tomorrow. A deepfried chalice affixes noodles to my soul.