Random words make you laugh and it hurt as you walk down the street on your tired feet and you run away and hide to be found in a while you know and it's cold in the snow so you're found to be hiding without the last tidings of joy and laughter thereafter and your tired but you're hired so you run to the scene where there's none to be seen and you fall asleep in the steep
You just roll with the flow, don't you, Cappar? You were in the rural landscapes, now your landing in an airplane. You were taking in a view, now your viewing a take in, aren't you? Please tell us again about your lost luggage and the overwhelming attendance at your "Put a Bow On It" presentation-show. Tell us again about your bestselling book, "Your More of a Rockstar than You Think." You clever, clever man. How could so much insightitude protrude from just one lobe of brain? Bless us with more of your ego radiance. Bless us with more of your timeless shine. Can I take your coat? Can I take your socks? You just do what you want to, don't you Cappar? Don't you just take the things that gleam? Don't you just roll where they need you most?
Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m scratching itches I can reach. The summer seems too far away. The winter will not leave. Stress adds to the fray. Stress whittles away the day. Stress sews a net and it flutters around your neck. It tangles up your steps. It destroys all hope of sex. It guarantees an audience of boring people. It eliminates opportunity. It eradicates creativity. It hampers objectivity and punctures your credulity. It is pining for relief. It is hoping for freedom. Now I’m hearing airplanes. Now I’m seeing sculptures. Now I’m breathing deeply. One Breath, two breath, three….
It's not too late. The bakers scrape. The bearded man of the hour. The baker's hat is filled with hate. The windy street is hard and black. We pierce through the fog in baker's grace. We shake up our thoughts to oxygenate the plates. We visit strangers tall and wide. We end the song with baker's descent. Strangers shake the place tonight. Baker's tap the strange delights. Bakers scream out songs on high. It's not too late to live or die. The artist posts an image for eyes. The baker stares confused and slight. The artist fights the frigid nil. The baker fights the artist's nihilism. The cookies burn. The buns are fried. It's not too late for living sights. The bus stop patrons step to the street. The baker and artist stand up to greet. It's not too late for coherent thoughts.
The scientist peers through the microscope (the biology plow; the science sickle). She wants to give to everyone she meets. But she must complete the research task in front of her. She wants to sacrifice herself for love. But she must pay off her skill-set-debt. Skill-set-debt compels her priorities. Debt mutates her value set. The cost of education disorients the quantum particles in her frontal lobe and she is working extra hours just to afford her favorite coffee-drink. Science-minister. Materialism-seller. Oh, how she awaits her salvation. Oh, how she computes her mystery data. Her father and mother are proud of her and want her to achieve. Her step-mother and step-father want her to know they care for her, too.