“am i funny, mama?” says the upside down clown in search of his head, while dreamers in waking lie dreaming whatever half-dreams waking dreamers dream… in bed.
the notion of commencing thither and thather in worlds unknown to waking upside down clowns is foreign to even the jolted leg kicking up from the imaginary stair to which it will inevitably fall. or won’t fall.
and all the houses you see will never provide you with the home they felt like in the moment you read those symbols that should but don’t quite make sense together.
the light blue motorcycles you rode, even when you don’t ride motorcycles, they understand you. a singular ride to revelation.
even the air you floated in amongst family and friends as you ascended became the cold sweat you arose to in the hot bed that froze you exactly where you thought you weren’t.
things that seem made from fluff become personal so fast and that’s fine as long as you know whose ass it is that’s on the line.
arise, o sleeper! come to your senses! what will the ax rip away and what will the fire burn? or is this all a joke to you? if so, i’ll take your seltzer and run to sniff my own god damned flowers.
or at least someone else’s.
because the grass is always greener on my side of the fucking fence.