Hop, dervish, scotch!

grippling butterscotch drowning in its tail-storm; expanding marvelous chimneys gleefully whistling through the almanac of a maniac; strong right hook breezes over a nutcracker, what a joke.

i solemnly swear that it is not I who suffers, it is an abomination called love inside of me, churning, growling, spitting all over my goddamned dwarfed soul; and the curious thing is that i may not even be there, if we’re being honest. who knows?

gladly, the station is rolling away and we’re alone now. nothing and no one is there to hunt us and remnants of the past are gradually dying over there, on the sidewalk. pavement rolls over your tongue like a spiteful lollipop, grogging into a little carousel of existence, i could tell you of elephants and parrots, but you’ve known them yourself now, and honey, i am so proud of you.

in this exact moment of absurd silence wailing over our hearts, I am blabbering nonsense that no one should hear, insidiously and thoughtfully, yet I would be glad to tell you this over and over again, until the meteors paint themselves red and basquiat returns from the dead to give us a biggest banquet of our lives with a certain judgment on the side. but you’re not a sinner, and even if you were, I would let myself be crucified to take all of your spites and sorrys on to myself.

le parisien is speechless and a smile wider than a birds wings, even if he tried, erupts off my face, ha-ha, not so fast, I know still who i am, and in such stillness knowing lies, much to everybody’s concern.

your face is sugar caramelised and my tongue burns, yet so very joyously. voilà, hop, dervish, scotch!