A soon as I get out of here, I'm going to wrap a three and one-half foot cord of hard, cracked and peeled cocking from a rusty cocking gun in someone's grandmother's basement in Liverpool, and gag my self into a dysenteric puss fluid that resembles a hairline crack in the back of a whale's ten-foot cock.
I will talk to branches and whistle with a mouth fool of coffee grinds.
I will watch the newsman prick his finger with a car tire and piss in the raingutter.
I will eat nothing but pink ants with eyebrows.
I will be beneath the moralities of life.