{ star warts: episode one } matilda + oscar blitz
May 24, 2016 13:03:57 GMT -5
Post by fox on May 24, 2016 13:03:57 GMT -5
Oscar
Sunday mornings, and I’m always running on empty. Stacks of plastic containers sit with the fine dusting of a hard week’s work worth of fucking around with the citizens of Eight. And I’m no delivery service, but skeletons find their sins and there’s nothing to do about grave gravity. External hungers, light pockets, nameless crossroads underneath smokestack viscera: so Sunday mornings I find Matilda here.
And sometimes we go over the basics of quality control: statistics, acceptance sampling, empirical observation -- get high on the supply you could say in layman's terms. I've got Cocaine, Ket, Grass -- but I've got a cold, and K-holes are crap, and we could roll some shit up but what's the fun in that?
I’ve got this fat fucker in my hands, caught it when the thing was crying thunderstorms in the dawn lit mist at six a.m. and way too early. Or not caught -- more like picked the toad up from its lazy oasis, just as it gave me half an olive glance with marble eyes, then snuggled up in my palms to complete silence.
I’ve got this fat fucker in my hands and legend says kaleidoscopes and ripred’s breath, the urban myths born from suburban kids licking toads on rainy days -- reckless and starved and huffing in factory fumes-plus-industrial grade glue, looking for some transcendental mindfuck in lalaland. Except there’s really only one way to figure out if there’s any gospel factuality in these untruths.
So I hold it out towards Matilda as she walks in, its plain underbelly exposed to her. It gives a long, lethargic croak of this half-assed protest but stays cutely complacent, and so I pat it a little on its back.
Yeah. I guess it’s kind of cute.
“Hey, I had a thought while waiting,” I tell her. “Wanna smoke this shit up?”
And sometimes we go over the basics of quality control: statistics, acceptance sampling, empirical observation -- get high on the supply you could say in layman's terms. I've got Cocaine, Ket, Grass -- but I've got a cold, and K-holes are crap, and we could roll some shit up but what's the fun in that?
I’ve got this fat fucker in my hands, caught it when the thing was crying thunderstorms in the dawn lit mist at six a.m. and way too early. Or not caught -- more like picked the toad up from its lazy oasis, just as it gave me half an olive glance with marble eyes, then snuggled up in my palms to complete silence.
I’ve got this fat fucker in my hands and legend says kaleidoscopes and ripred’s breath, the urban myths born from suburban kids licking toads on rainy days -- reckless and starved and huffing in factory fumes-plus-industrial grade glue, looking for some transcendental mindfuck in lalaland. Except there’s really only one way to figure out if there’s any gospel factuality in these untruths.
So I hold it out towards Matilda as she walks in, its plain underbelly exposed to her. It gives a long, lethargic croak of this half-assed protest but stays cutely complacent, and so I pat it a little on its back.
Yeah. I guess it’s kind of cute.
“Hey, I had a thought while waiting,” I tell her. “Wanna smoke this shit up?”
