Three Parts, One Cup (Part I).

Three Parts to One Cup...
I
pinned one up, and shackled the latter lot to the business ends of paper dolls and clay concubines - whos fascades stay craddled, hidden behind the shroud of shrewd swinging parsols. and in a fashion fit price to fill the spell of salarymen staining the matching drapery fabrics, they handled their courtly conclave, kept low key and keeping company with skeletons in the confines of cabinets. these aren't my median sized tire skid marks scrawled against. not my notches etched on Satan's employee of the month list. these aren't my crown calf offerings cut from cloth and throat. not my Charon ferry toting corpses across the moat. i'm just the bouncer. the door-man hired to keep the knob's warm while the johns get their parts torn. commencement of the corralated sapien pseudo serenade to frame the perfect post modern romance, and the pre-packaged goodbye wave. delapidated deadpan pillow dialogue. this is that special breed of insignificant other, be it the idle club-goer, wife, or some other frowning mime semblance of a [LoVer]. the pardons taking purpose with static filling the void, is what drove you to this alleywalker's way lit threshold which you used to avoid. caffeine and currency in exchange for semi-decent company. the only split in the skematic of this and the one that ends with them saying "I Do", is one totes a ring and the motions turn into habit. its left the both of you seamless outlines of the something that once served as the pyre. do you take this flimsy mass of rag doll remnants to be your awfully woven midwife? amidst the attempts of stitching limb segments to the better ends of permanence, there was a fall out in knitting the dual ends of the bed when the needle caught another sticking the fabric with his thread.

if she keeps from curdling and keeps his toes curling whilst on attack from on top, we'll ticker tap parade the parle peacfully as the transactions peak drops. spit shine symptoms and swan arch on back breed of angle. filthier co-ops have commenced, and i'm not so much the messenger as but the budding currency caretaker. though to teeter onto the fabric of ethics favorite piece of sunday clothing, my fault lies smack dabble in my surplus of mime motion of not knowing. suits can stumble in and out, tip-towing into any open crevas without aid from my finger aiming down the hall. it doesn't take my stint or slap to make em spray their dub of ends onto the wall. this profession is my elder, and as it is for every other. for theres sweeter silence post climax than when the one you're with isn't your [LoVeR]. all these spiral frenzied eyes faking the motion to buddy up. they don't dare share the same air, but all sip the same cup.

II
as for me, i've pegged prettier passions to that pin to trip wire dyfunctional suburb fashion. four walled and in immediate vacinity, though from a meta-mile's standpoint their hearts couldn't be further. sate a save and say its an aim to hit comfort, but the circumference of the conundrum have got this head sweating with wonders. if the [LoVe] barren bread winner is out earning from 8 til 10, what abode of mischief does the lonely house-wife's writhing hail from then? i've got a twenty on the line that says theres a mystery to be siphoned. a precog picturesque image of a seed that blooms chaos once its rippened. not a creature's stur nor comment when the passing time was spent, or when pa-pa walked in too early to find her bounding atop of Mr. Dent. might have been the lack of flame, the fire dimming out of fashion, but along the way i fell astray when picking up the pattern to lust for passion.

as the background music and bouquette of flowers came crashing down around the [Love] sick suit to the betrayal of the harlot, their daughter is found across town in an angle lit room earning my title as a starlet. legs propped to the ceiling, ankles worn as earrings, i'm turning a tilted cringe tinge with the thrust to the camera-man for feeling. but the saddest note on hand, for i can't think of any other, is the camera-man on call is none other than my brother. ommited from the parable was the terrible truth that he in turn saw the paper palace tear to the aforementioned pattern. we took solace in our space, and some point down the way i fell typecast as the slattern. all these spiral frenzied eyes that faking motion to buddy up. they don't dare share the air, but all sip the same cup...

III

now tip-tow the timeline backwards a spell, and adjust the camera light for added measure. back when the baying toll of the dinner bell signalled the illusion things were better. this current advent reporting lack of repour live from the table. Mrs. Martha Homemaker is on the attack, but Daughter Massacre is mounting crazy offense

to be continued...