Quit jerking us around, you're perfectly sound and capable, I bet you. For sure, we're certainly not around, the frequency that you seem set to. Circumstantially lurking, pounding on the door, what you're doing isn't working now, if it ever did before. You're lurching into church wearing exactly what you wore last night, sweating in your new shirt, pissing in your old pants, towing some skirt with her nose powdered white as ashes, whining like the trash she is, a red-and-blue circus of bruises on her ass sticking out six inches past the hem of her shorts, but she got them "playing sports" brah, that's what happens on the courts. And before God, you swear you're gonna marry her, while all that's on your mind is parking on her aircraft carrier. And by that I mean her ass. That ai'nt even classy big, she just a massive pig, Pass me the bacon and eggs cause I'm about to fast-break a leg, check it: I figure that thing with her belt around it is in its own zoning class, second only to Australia in contiguous land mass That bush could be a forest and those patches of grass are growing into tiny lawns, complete with matchstick log cabins and matchbox riding mowers driven to finely drawn plots of neat little rows, microscopic patio pots with unseeable roses in them, while hotwheels cars commute the scenic route between her taint and her toeses. I ain't knowing what kind of horrors she's got planned for when a wedding band ornately festoons her hand, but I know you got that janky ring in a box of raisin bran that you found amongst the stanky things under the sink, and I think that all her rocks were made in Iran, fashioned out of glass by kids in a sweatshop getting branded by the foreman, and I know she adores looking like she just landed on a ship full of whores from planet ghettofab, melted sand glittering all over a tiara made of tin cans and spirals out of steno pads.  I should arrest you, perks aside, I don't get you. You're a wreck dude. You're in peices on the floor. You're sunk past your neck in records that people adore, but you still whore out your vocal cords to the next guy promising more than you already have, it's a tragedy like theres some missing masterpiece in your museum of art, chasing dragons on a bike, the casual viewers seem to think it's alright, but the incomplete collections break the hearts of the critics and enlightened patrons of your craft, after hours at the gallery opening party, downing whiskey-sours, spouting fallacies at every mallory holding a bacardi and looking halfway into your eyes the heavy story of your soul, being perused like a pulp-fiction novel, and you cry into a bottle, your fears and tears fermenting with the leaves in the potholes on the dirt road leading from one end of your mind to the other,