Speaking the Truth

Alright so, Abstraction is... a word.
The thing is even when something makes no sense it still needs to feel true. Even when something isn't real it must some how come alive. Otherwise it's just a verbose soup of obtuse bells chiming flatulent spells, rubbing so close together and stroking everything tender, starting soft and feeling through every splendor, then humping and throbbing and pumping now mercilessly stronger, and louder and foaming and moaning in heat and surging buckets of supremely engendered prose in a dissonant beat, bursting robust and muscular harmony through the celestial pink now swollen and open and dripping, coming closer and closer to the peak of ascension. Pay attention because this part's important. Did you just get a little horny? Because if you didn't catch it, I was talking about farts. Armchairs and tables become sexual sights and seeds, clashing against the boundaries of pitiful niceties and dishonest memories until anger takes our proud humility and plunges into a deep, foreign melody.

You see, everything must sound as though it cries when missing its favorite blanket. Otherwise we're stuck wondering where the cruelty of reciprocal interest came from and how we can be rid of it as quickly as possible. How loud must we shout when chewing through the thickets of our lost dreams and sending costly signals to the underlodged and naked things.

I apologize, this is all really deep shit. It's so deep we drown in the stew and stink up the metaphysical rockets with our egotistical glue. We take life and grab it right from our eye sockets until we can recognize something, something, something new.

This is what came before the sun and the seagull! This is what came before the cosmos and the rain and the quiet truth. This. This is honest truth. I swear to god I'm Not making this shit up. It may not be recorded in history books but that's just because conspiracy nuts worked with evangelical coocs to fill every inch and corner of the moon with baked potatoes colored golden-brown and covered in feathery sour cream and juicy bacon bits. Now ponder this, because this part's important. Did you just get a little hungry?

See, this is the really deep shit. This is the sound a child makes when it realizes it's going under the thumb of a band of parasitic loudspeakers, cannibal tricksters and uprooted scores of boundless whispers and that hidden shade staring at you from the closet is so fucking real you better start screaming because it will come and get you but only. Only if you promise that you're really afraid. See everything must sound as though it's too ripe to be real, as if it's begging to be picked from its pedestal and chewed up and swallowed and shat out some dude's asshole. Otherwise it won't make you cry.

And real truth must make you cry. Sensible assertions are broken by the complexity of the frivolous and circular circumstance circling trivial options and deceitful concoctions and activists are just catering to propaganda's patronizing sentences. But I promise you this. I will never patronize my audience. But feel free to start crying. After all it's a rough and lousy sketch of life for doubt collects upon the corners of our eyes each time we wake and realize our dreams pulled a fast one, fabricating a haven to console our locked passion. We scratch and claw at the concrete walls that have all rust and dried to dusty, sour surfaces so ugly and pale and seeping smells musky and stale. We claw at these walls, driving and pounding and stripping our nails to bone to escape the cruelest truth we could ever know. That flat, frigid fact that short and shallow hearts beat deep and always sweep untraveled streets, clinging to the sideburns and leather jackets of extradimensional Fonzis, hanging off every synchronous remark whether or not it stands a chance at solving any Earthquakes or Bee stings or Overdue Rent and not one of them can shake the feeling. Not one of them can shake the feeling. Not one of them can shake the feeling that none of this shit makes any sense.
W-w-wait! This part's important... Nevermind, I forgot what I was I gonna say.