The following message is being brought to you by the theory of automatic writing:
The truth was pins puncturing the surface of sleeves
and skin cried for mercy but no one came
and no one wept as weasels get away with more treats from your freezer
and fried morsels from your crispy idea bin
but being human is the way your teachers told you to act
whenever the action becomes too much to handle
and penguins with gloves on their heads are flipping remote controls
that set off alarms and steal your diamonds
and didn’t your mother remind you that it’s not right
to hide the truth from your little brother
and to bring the trash cans up front
because your father needs to throw away another artist
that should have been a doctor but didn’t apply himself
for the sake of making money and long hours away from home
and what he loves and he is left longing for something
that closely resembles the truth but should never try
because it only ends up puncturing the skin.
This is the end of this broadcast. Please stand by for your regular bloggramming.