Up up yours up mine it's not quite done filling back up when will the toilet stop running the pipes are rushing to get rid of the brooding that despises its accompaniment its shushing its permanent marker of conversation marring the board of white noise no settings for the volume the sky is locked on grey up up yours up mine it's not quite done filling back up when will the toilet stop running the pipes are rushing to get rid of the brooding that despises its accompaniment its shushing its permanent marker of conversation marring the board of white noise no settings for the volume the sky is locked on grey.
"It used to be," said Decrepit.
"What used to be?" asked Fallow.
"Well, you name it."
"Just spin the wheel, huh?"
"I wasn't going to say that. Let me finish it."
"Sorry. I should have let you complete your sentence."
"Not that. Let me finish it and we'll drop to our deaths."
"Why do you want to do that?"
"You mean what's my reasoning? I want to see what it's like to make something fail from the top."
"We're halfway to the bottom. Besides the scaffolding is stuck unless you want to try it again."
"You're right. It's meaningless. Plus I refuse to do anything with my hands anymore."
"You won't get very far in your attempts to off yourself."
"Maybe I'll just climb over the railing and jump."
"It wouldn't involve me."
"I can't tell if you're relieved or disappointed."
"I can't decide."
We might be back and we might we just might listen to the are they still calling them voices on the other side of the wall is that what they are still calling them they they are still called those things we call we might be we had to go ahead and be and that was the first mistake be back for a chance at listening to sides and the headphones have gone missing squared off with what has been pulling for it dragging them away through the dog door of vulnerable and excruciating encounters with memories that's what the Sun does what it's been doing since it started its spitfire drooling on the bathroom floor where the toilet is cracking up from the absurdity of what was used to keep it together the glue of a messy affair can't erase those images that resurface just at the back of your nose in the front of your mind can't get over it when you're knee-deep in it heart of glass in a glass house try to wipe and see through it streaks left behind rubs everyone the wrong way since I could walk since the Sun started its spitfire drooling on the bathroom floor a vomitorium of heat to reignite in the skin and muscles forgotten humiliation for another performance yet an additional day-room to stumble into.
"A man once went back to his junior high classroom," said Decrepit.
"We didn't call it junior high," said Fallow.
"He sat at the desk that used to be his."
"We called it something else."
"He tried to see if the poem he wrote directly on the desk was still there."
"I can't remember what we called it, but it wasn't junior high."
"You just said the only word he found from his poem."
"How many t's survived?"
"So he was writing about what an ass he was and only one t survived?"
"No, the conjunction you ass-hat notwithstanding the overly sufficient evidence you can't help but provide more reasons why men are the toxic offspring that spread despite the menstrual lakes of extinguishing stupidity."
"Inter something is what we called it."
"Intermediate school probably. I've heard it called that."
"No, it wasn't that. I just can't remember."
"Never mind. I'll climb over the rail and jump."
"It wouldn't involve me."
"I still can't tell if you're relieved or disappointed."
"I still can't decide."
Change the channel
to a different story
change the diaper
to the same old way
of disposing of our waste
couldn't put a finger on it
and the lid came off
and we became the moon
except we reflected no light
deader than a gray ocean
with meaningless missions
- Max Stoltenberg