uninspired by godzilla

set in a stuffy old theatre with mushy old seats and watched some long since gone hong kong fuey with all the catsup fluttering everywhere. and why in the would you ever go to a blood mouth in an all-white suit?

now, it’s still hot. i wish that son (i mean, sun, sotty) would just chill out, leave us alone for a day or two. doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen.

and in all the yesters, i clambered around like a cave-dweller, watched the darkness flutter around my flashlight and brushed my tips against the slimey sides. rocks and rocks and rocks. by the end of it, (after fall once or twice and bashing my leg on a lone rock twice the size of my head) i’m thinking like i’m drinking or dreaming up the sun and that by the time we’re clambering out, dazed, after half day of utter dark, well, the sun’s looking mighty good. it’s only later that we scarfed down meatcicles and such. now i’m sure the trails gone all slarpy.

what to do when there’s nothing to do anyway? all the linkages in the world are uninspiring me these days. that’s why there’s not much ado on that front (all the germans crouched in the bunkerholes, smoking their triste cigarillos and coughing up their yellowed lungs) or any front atoll.

i’m yearning for a storm crane, so’s i can just stand in the midst of a fiery raging water spout and feel that wind and air whirruping about. that would be refreshing. a bit of physical something to patch against the agonistas of the neurochemickals thereabouts or in the neighboring ones. or, contrariwise, just feeling those burning breaths through some dark navvy. and now i’ve lost myself in something…

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