Tinsel town is a far way away from Tuscany. Tread lightly dear otter, between you and me. Hide your hiccups in the cages for all to see. Firm hands cradle craniums and lead recklessly - who gets to say when we become free.
I ate a turnip on a Tuesday and it twisted my tongue until all I could see was what was left inside thee. Sweet and sticky like marshmallow pie, cotton candy that wouldn't dare fuck the sky. When did you become a sloth? Slow moving. Mouth like an anteater. Searching for crumbs. Slack-jawed and suction-cup fingers - simplicity akin to the enemy. Didn't you know we need you to desire we? Apathy has got us weak in the knees.
Firm Fridays have us standing upright. Our lips tense, straight lines drawn tight, but look at that tree, all gnarled and bent. Full of beasts and burdens and malicious intent. How meaty it would be to reside in thee. Dark coagulation of the coldest kind. Intestines laced and intertwined. The bottom of the ocean filling our minds.
Familiarity has fucked us incessantly.
Familiarity has fucked us sideways.
Familiarity has fucked us six ways from Sunday.