my time is here i' ve decided and a life anywhere else would be pagan choreography... as i have been documented serving wine to the blind. people need to be happy, happy from sin. i milk the atom. i derive sustenance from it and i am the absolute composition of whatever evolves; i recovered overseas from assorted parcels of general deliverance.
at present i am able to move my own bowels and sometimes those of others simply by screaming at them; i snarl, mincing declarations from the jinx of intestinal stage fright. we all get it and when it works we are happy, all of us. when it doesn't work... nobody gets to shit. atom or no atom.
so i bruise my way blimping into holstered elbows like they were loaded six-shooters to address this malt of charity lookalikes. they have faces of wood and sculpted soap. they have the look as if they just devoured the last great thought they ever had... in fact they were the last great thought that anybody had! they did not milk the atom.
and i watch huge obscure bodies contorting indigo-blue from the strain of celibacy upon their beneficent skins. however...since all of our scars and bruises look so much alike, as if from the same sins, they could be just happy people with good tattoos ... staining the silk of our undergarments with the nervous sweat of an evaporating handshake.