Sunday, August 11, 2013

Fun Time

He loves your sweet, sweet brownie points
oozing wax, testicular fortresses, the ailment of everyday.
Send your sunshine to him, Moonbeam,
he's pale with a certain dysentery of the spirit.
This axe above his aching pencil neck, self-poised and wielded,
poindexter, psychopath with a conflicted conscience.
Class clown tripping on nothing but living another day
(once, a girl said he had the nicest smile and he loved her in his head).
Some joking seriously that he was most likely to be institutionalized
or to croak at the hands of his own joke.

Jackson, let him in on the fun times, you can see he misses those.

He missed most of them or
soiled them or spoiled them
with overly-serious thoughts of
igniting something important.

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