A dark spot in the sun, band on the run, I sometimes pose as god's only son. The technology in a dream, is not melting ice-cream it's the product of god retarded, you can have more than one reality, and it began when it started. Before top dead centre, just a bit, the timing light reveals all. Destiny syrupy, along the borderline of conspiracy, honey glow to and fro. The taste of beaten butter and sugar and slightly warm on the spatula. Bring in the boys, where are the boys? They ran away with the circus, disguised as dwarves, but got kicked out as their fingers weren't short and fat enough. There're very few boy souls left in the guff. There's nobody round just me and the proportionate dwarves, they are jumping off wharves, they are running amuck, then I wake up and breathe the word fuck. Sometimes waking up is hard to do. But then am I awake? Or is reality just a recurring dream come nightmare? But it's okay, that is I think it's not too bad. |