talking junk

A Story by dukovan

Sometimes you need to know the answer to something, I mean really, truely, somewhere between the fibers of your intestines and the marrow of your eyes and teeth and bone. Sometimes you need to find a place that walks parallel or perhaps even hand in hand, with instinctual imagination and dna. Where organic happenings promote themselves with such obvious conviction and talents. Yes, sometimes it is good to know the thing in your soul, even before you have the facts.
Facts got messy as soon as you tried to desiphre their meaning without understanding the core of things. But I sit here wondering if I ever had truely gotten to the core of anything. I do not nor have I ever understood absolution in example or a true transendant nirvana. I am a creature prone to regression, but hope would shout out just loud enough to be heard out of this underground shelter we've taken like the rats we've found ourselves to be in recent days. In thought, i felt realistic possibilities. Entranced the rats grew imaginative wings.
I remember last week sitting down with a cigarette on a bench watching a mix of freshly thawed out trash. They were to be the first signs of an anticipated theory and a self disciplined of the lack lackluster montra, "Save the children!", , crinkles the purge of self debravatting cowmeat and condiments. The wrapping paper of a double cheeseburger clings to itself never fully letting go of its spirit, encased with remnants of frozen paper cheese.
It sheds a tear to the next generation and am completely engaged with its life.

I reach for things when I sleep. My arms are stretching seeded leaves, I bully down the thirty thieves and steal back what's been bothering me. Its that they divided me from me.
Like when you watch the waves crash
They separate the scene
But you know no nothing really changed.
They just made it seem that way