Meet My Dada

Aggravation. Alleviation. Teeter down, totter up. No balance. Dynamic equilibrium. Sight block. Limits of experience. Locked in a human.

Help.

Bite brick wall, floss with barbed wire, pain of big rock sharing drowns in my blood.
All my atoms weave their way into other DNA in the year 3014. My protestations whisper in the wind: “Shuuuuut uuuuuuup, youuuuuu idioooooooooots.” Whistling through Old West gas station doors, termite-textured.
Please chuck stones on the ground until it splits and you all go mouth-up.
Continue the bound-and-gagged existence and keep hacking at it like John Henry until the mountain collapses.
2012 passed with a grunt.
2013 let out an SBD.
2014 and 2046 high-fived each other with rubber chickens.
Let go of my leg, vile devil. Irreligious of your irregardless.
Sometimes I like walking across the bottom of the fishbowl looking good and looking at you in your submarines as you blow Dumbo bubbles blissfully shredding gunt.
Why? Because all of human activity is conditioning and instinct, with a few horseflies of genuine inspiration getting swatted.
Meet my Dada.

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