An Epic. The Vicious
Circle of the Couch Potato.
GET
OFF!!!!!
NO!!!
I
SAID GET OFF!!!
AND
I SAID NO NO NO NO NO NO!!
There's
no escaping a Couch Potato.
They
hunker down next to one
round
and knobbly on the chair
growing
fatter and uglier every day.
They
wear your lipstick and
ladder
your stockings.
MAN! I long for lying low.
Your Lip / Stick
so let's go couch fishing
Toss the baited hook
out of the closest window
Real Life Heroes, Pizza,
Smells like Napalm, Tastes like Chicken.
(an old sock)
I didn't know Couch Waters
were so deep
and cheap this time a year
Did I say, did I say
NO?
Subsection
two warning
to all couch potatoes upground,
underground
boiled,
braised, fried or peeled
skins
on skins off your days are
numbered
lumbered
with
the baggage you bring you're
not
wanted
stunted
lip
-
-stick-
back
-slack
Mack
the knife
strikes
twice
s-p-l-i-c-e
you're done.
Fried and peeled,
the couch Waitress is gone
and gone too far
Back at Couch Potato School, where
they teach you to
Lick
Plates
Empty
( )
Stop poking Common Sense or
I'll miss tomorrow's pillow marathon,
the oddest
Avalon
Couch
Crouch
Cage
Encaged
Enraged
But
the passing is sweet.
Sounds
smell stronger
more
fragrant on the tongue,
the
shadows grow whiter as
the
ink of madness fades
into
ether.
Hump
day too
will
dawn,
The
Pouch Philosopher
mumbled
through
his rusted electron tube.
Remotely
un-controlled
in
muddy waves (not unlike
Potter's
Clay)
of
grey,
Gully
groove to
nowhere in particular.
Discovery
By
Prof-Med-Phil
The
Worm Hole in which
Couch
Potatoes form
is
filled with worms.
Squirms.
And
I
spoke
to
1??
Or at least I thought
I heard it
skillfully screech
in my Daydream.
The thin line
between awake and the ceiling
seems to shorten
as days get longer
(for all we know a saving grace).
Still.
For them worms it's all the same,
silk or muck
your butt's just stuck.
Magenta
Crash
Night
Spills
Butt
still stuck.
The
space between
the
ceiling and couch grows thin.
I
breathe suspicious air
Night
falls
Daylight
retracts,
Ink
is spilt into her
slight
light.
The
cough potato glowers.
How many hungry moons
reclined
on the fostering inside arm?
Many,
or too few to recall.
Those Lotus-eating Roots
poking through Moleskine.
Wound-up paths
dry as Bone.
See, a breeze and they
tumble off
in a flush of Decay.
On the other side: the faintest hint
of bloom.
Too soon to
bloom
To late to sate
The appetite
once filled
With
Feelings
unknown
Countless
coffee cups
Endless
swirling words in worlds of
Lemon grass
chicken stir (fry)
A knock - a bang
- a grate on bone
Ripples on
water turned to stone.
Pictures on screen
are traveling that Road of Déja-vu
I hit pause but the
blur
lingers.
Sitting on orange peels
I can't feel
their familiar tickle.
Strange.
Skin must grow thicker when
eyes blink reluctantly,
a stagnant attempt at
catching
the drowsy slipper
feet once shod with grace
fleet of bone marrow
ample arms that held
the light on grasslands aloft.
The walls of the world
Ring
With shrouded Orange Sent
From minds and feelings
Awash in
Magma Magenta.
She lived in the see-ling
space between
Living and not living
For so Eon
That the roots
Were orange strong
But today
Or yesterday
There was Magma Magenta enough
To pull free.
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