The sensuous anything observer

Lately, House Negros make the best sociopaths. Their outbursts of magic purple sunshine are all blasphemy. Obnoxious snack foods and big food cereals rotting in their cupboards and in their stomachs, stucco somewhere bobbing on the soul and the whiskey stench of their pent up lust burning them out, hour by complacent hour. Does it take one to know one? No one wants to admit anything uncomfortable anymore. Affairs are more comfortable than war crimes. The head of the CIA resigns, comfortably, and now both of his women have time to manicure their nails and him too, lately. At one time, the field fed the house milk and honey, hymns and timber til the owl finished wailing in silence, one time she was still singing in the morning about oneness, one time retreat would blind them one line away from the certain circle like a close up on the word yes makes it impossible to define except, damn, your man and the man and are the same bland team posing like enemies, trying to trick you, looking closer than anything to one another and they even want you to notice and to love them both. When you laugh about it afro wigs fall from the sky, made in Foxconn, China. You long to stay home and wear one to the corner store for lemonade, alone, looking for new ways to rhyme yes with itself like in Fine and Mellow