#modernvisage

 "So, I can stop taking the meds? All ove them?"

           Said the small, suited man; said like he left a post it note more than felt like he was cured. Reclining in a velvet chair with his temperament of sheepishness blanketing him. A women with an objective seating position near the door changed from leaning forward to a posture that embraces the horizon. "Well, you seem able to express a harmony with this, now, rare illusory voice of Gordon Ramsay. I am still surprised you can't prepare a single meal for you family." 

           Her smile retracted to an awkward grin just prior to his interjection "HE IS A DRILL SERGENT! Don't let him see the cracks." The small hobbit of a potato sac stood to the height of a child challenging a rule. Yes, she nodded "You remember, that he is just a sign of pressure."; a figment representing obligation and the strict parental guidance you craved as a child of a single mother.. 

          Both still in a passive setting, The man paces in short attempts at crossing the room. She was confused by its message. Does he have to... "Where do you feel those opinions come from?" 

          Hands raised, hands fall. He strikes the air with an index finger that became a drill with his excitement. "The Mission! The UTOPIA!!!! The Justice System is still, is fucking RAW!!!!" eyes gaping mouths for a vision to enter. The entertaining hysteria fades from his featured face into their natural, anchored positions of misery. 

          She pulls a prescription form out with a gentle flick of the paper and puts her glasses on. Eye's squinting they return to the same place they were before on the couch. He falls with hands out, sullen. "So, before the session ends, let's talk about-adjusting your regiment." Her cross expression jolted him up four inches. 

          Gordon Ramsay's voice permeates into the shared office space's hallway. "You're about to grill idiot sandwich you've made of yourself, let me pick the BAGUETTE for you, you fucking donkey!" The words drag him to the floor as the audio-visual fades... "You look like you just lost your virginity, and what a sad fuck you are." Echo.

-Fin

By the pricking of my thumbs

something wicked this way comes

crescendo, rumbling only coming from rows of drums, catch tha tempo,

roll off the cliff, to the edge of the world, need a spliff to keep lifted

, obstacle hurtled, tilt our position like a hat, reality yoga guided by john searle

tip the titty adorned cat, regulate youths to polish their pearls

Squirrels watch us while we walk so diminish our small talk

knock on the door, knock outta the park, knock out a rebel

knock over memorials

memories sent astray

as if they were being dished out by the salesman billy mays

hes a demon, part of the self-forged mental haze

caught for days in this waste, blood feeling like a paste

post traumatic stress at its best, lest these crowds detest

the methods I refine from the rest

pivot on any position while I test jets

jesting is verbal jousting, 

rip up the letters

attending parties that need hosting

faust when, limits make me pout

the more letters we spout the more they seem to roll about

these sound waves, its the new way, method, ninja's way of life

clutched by our generations ambition to absorb information

then to wield it like a knife, then smile at our neighbors as if we are converging to sail kites, but thats all that I have for you tonight

good bye old friend lets keep it outta mind and outta site.