The appeal to Freemasonry is mainly because I can't
piss when my dog's watching. OK? It also promises
to move me one substrate lower, to not only improve mood and
blood pressure – but to obviate the need to have to look down
to find lost coins, dangerous cracks in the pavement, etc.
Spine corrected, mind shook straight – by the harsh
resounding cough of the emphysemic lobster beneath
the pot's lid. It sufficed for a while. Bellows that pumped
aromas culled from cinemas! The kerosene lamp that entered
like a ninja into some hippie's sensory deprivation sandcastle
was my end-of-tunnel light – a bit fragmented like a dried inkblot.
It was a beautiful sandcastle until some noisy, chatty raven
kicked it in with its orthopedic foot. Goddamn! - how one
instantly witnessed a wonderful, if residual, resurgence of
seepage from neighbors lying through their teeth.
The collecting of frat party jelq for oozing petri dishes in
home economics. Doll parts presiding over spooky anomalies
in swing sets. The accelerator in my leg braces was dripping
goat blood; I lost count of what-all at the point of developing
a sexual attraction towards sparky twisty mad scientist laboratory-ish
hotrods. Papier mache hinge mechanism to lift arms outstretched
for love – causing a draft that hits everyone's left eyeball like
an arrow. Sweeps away the solarium snow angel's smell of burning flesh.