Out Through the Attic Window

This is to appease the Manic Rambler. Syllable by symbol to breathe soul into the Zero-G, some call it life in free fall. Blamed by the inner. SEE!? Left rethinking all laws; whose world have I been released in? I'd lie if it didn’t feel like a useless pause. Saying to say the said thing to the succubus, ignore the countdown timer she checks, it's not for you.

Lost in a forest, in a maze, in a nesting doll. Darkness is YOUR green light. Go baby, go; drill baby drill. Eyes born red, ignore the shit floating around the room. Jumped point of view, be you lover, be you loon. Battle-ready in a pinch, chatter overly pinched with salt—ah, there’s my quill and brass knuckles.

Honey suckles and still under weight for the buckle meant to privatize the sweetness in death to meet max uselessness in the word count. Running through the irregardless to sharpen the Griffin’s horns, we don’t talk about the cave mouth from which he was born.

Brave like the absent-minded, whore reset to save the volumes of the interior lore, revisions always bring the gore. Days from the chronicles of the Classroom Knave, the disrupter in the red ink, blacked out eyes bored. Believe the nonsense of the mystics, with Harry Potter cloaks to learn more about shitty witch jokes.

Pages are filling—call the captain!—The exposition shoo-in is now a car chase, an unwelcomed ex’s speech, and only ends the second we're curled up in the corner by my lunch hour. Steaming, fuming—great, now the fucking epilogue has no meaning—reads it again—Wait!? Or am I really fucking gleaming?

Whatever. No motive code phrase hidden in the blue phonebook in the rogue porta-john available to think of. Research remains essential. Rally some wise takes on wise tales, tone down my wise ass from the cardio and ethereal cranial ventricles to make a reader blush, go animal, to pretend this was a rush job to be reached for. Sort of—wait?! What data isn’t found…

Limited space, a dimension at the ear wax drive-thru, and an action plan, too soon, on fire. No masterful wind death, lungs fished out as the last of the drowned me. I swear to answer that Wendigo, eventually, but chapter six isn’t what we thought it was--it’s just a broken part! Took too many liberties, where’s the HELL is the human in me?

Can I not find it? It was never there? Is that you, Hostage Taker? Not allowed to care one bit. Head of dead wit overexposed, under-detailed misadventures, at least here it will leave less litter. Enough isn’t enough isn’t enough for…