Shit Parade

The architect on steroids. Confessions of a liar. The copyright of skin. Leaving us with nothing to say to each other. Little dolls with frozen elbows trying to wave goodbye to wolves.

I don't drink. I just try to remember. That seldom pinnochio. With strings made of skin. I don't say it out loud, but I always think it. That addiction is just a euphemism for hate. Just one more piece of shit left in the outhouse we sometimes say is love.

The worse the smell the more I am inclined to investigate. The source. The fouler that it gets. The more certain I am that we are closer to to heaven.

We're all in the same shit parade. But only a very few of us enjoy the smell.