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Have you ever asked rhetorical questions slap-dab handed on the back of persevering in forecast winds?
Stumbling on the black pieces of plastic falling off of your umbrella, smacking you in the face at every possible moment
with spindle rain drenching the limbs fighting against this whether-the-weather-or-not weather.
Mackintosh squeeks and glassed-geek squares for eyes.
The river nile slowly making tracks down your face, realise.
This.
Is.
Eyeliner remarks in your mouth, on your cheek, blocking potential respiring cells on your already spiked, goose-pimped, slapped-red face.
Hence the return of the rhetorical question, are you ready? Is this the way we do things in the kitchen?

Brought down the heavy-drained mass of miserable mess. Birds nest of hair and wapped out the orange juice, crunked on the fridge door, stuck in egg and loitering by the many-a conserves. Crunch of sugar stuck to the sock of no return.

This'll be the last time we see each other, cotton buttoned Puma Dad-Sock.

Flung across the crowded air to the mountain of regaining concsiousness.
Your limbs stuck in the foetal position, crumbling down the stairs
curled up in sweat-ridden t-shirts, granny-patterned legs and tight eyelashes
crowding the world of space behind the lids of the spectacle-wearing user you are.

Dead-bird cat in clash with the wandering spasm of dandelion heads in the kitchen
Fat and drunk bumble-bee surround sound system and merrigold twilight twinkling through the door.
Smash bang thwack of the muscles that sit on the chair opposite.

Grab. Grope the cereal box.
Lash the milk and sneer at how you can dive spoon-first into some form of spite towards the rest of the joint-weary people on the kitchen table.
It's waking up in daisy chains. Washer-woman genie trials and dangerous thoughts.
Are we dangerous with the concept of carrying on with one thing too long?

Or are we just hoping that this time we turn around, the light's will be off
and the only reason we need go back, is to make sure the doors locked?

Description
Have you ever asked rhetorical questions slap-dab handed on the back of persevering in forecast winds?
Stumbling on the black pieces of plastic falling off of your umbrella, smacking you in the face at every possible moment
with spindle rain drenching the limbs fighting against this whether-the-weather-or-not weather.
Mackintosh squeeks and glassed-geek squares for eyes.
The river nile slowly making tracks down your face, realise.
This.
Is.
Eyeliner remarks in your mouth, on your cheek, blocking potential respiring cells on your already spiked, goose-pimped, slapped-red face.
Hence the return of the rhetorical question, are you ready? Is this the way we do things in the kitchen?

Brought down the heavy-drained mass of miserable mess. Birds nest of hair and wapped out the orange juice, crunked on the fridge door, stuck in egg and loitering by the many-a conserves. Crunch of sugar stuck to the sock of no return.

This'll be the last time we see each other, cotton buttoned Puma Dad-Sock.

Flung across the crowded air to the mountain of regaining concsiousness.
Your limbs stuck in the foetal position, crumbling down the stairs
curled up in sweat-ridden t-shirts, granny-patterned legs and tight eyelashes
crowding the world of space behind the lids of the spectacle-wearing user you are.

Dead-bird cat in clash with the wandering spasm of dandelion heads in the kitchen
Fat and drunk bumble-bee surround sound system and merrigold twilight twinkling through the door.
Smash bang thwack of the muscles that sit on the chair opposite.

Grab. Grope the cereal box.
Lash the milk and sneer at how you can dive spoon-first into some form of spite towards the rest of the joint-weary people on the kitchen table.
It's waking up in daisy chains. Washer-woman genie trials and dangerous thoughts.
Are we dangerous with the concept of carrying on with one thing too long?

Or are we just hoping that this time we turn around, the light's will be off
and the only reason we need go back, is to make sure the doors locked?