I always wanted to be a professional bumper-car driver.
One luxury only afforded professional bumper-car drivers
is this new toilet seat jelly any humanoid form
in a shitting demeanor can be comfortably positioned shitting
and relaxing on, until falling asleep.
You even get special migraines as a bumper-car driver, relieved
by playing Pong on your iPhone until the pungent smell of mothballs
makes your migraine seem resistant to its own mass.
You know when soap opera writers seem to run out of ideas?
I always wanted to insinuate myself into that point in
a soap opera where the show climaxes in a series of “dream reversals”:
where she gets the handsome unshaven dimpled chin ...
and he just gets the free midget in a basket.
And meanwhile the tits of all the nubile boys and girls in P.E.
wither into wind chimes...
The architecture of my childhood insomnia was a loud tomb.
I loved the Daleks selling adult diapers on the Home Purchasing Network.
I tried to read but no book ever seemed operational,
as if it were broken. Charles Manson only read books typed
on the very tough cloth of the id itself. Charles Manson never spawned
other versions of himself because his semen traveled in his thumb.
He died a lonely old man on a chair in the waiting room of a clinic.
I read about things he did with his 4 remaining fingers. Unspeakable
things. So bad were they, they even gave him food poisoning!
Both his 4 fingers and the stick of celery they were clutching
were subsequently rinsed in the clinic's holy fumes.