A little Bit of Poetry today – by Me.

The house of manic is situated on the corner of criminal activity and euphoria.

There is a lizard queen here.  She rides around on roller skates with a bottle of vodka.  We worship her because she is out standard of normalcy.

There are no beds here, no sleep – only bar stools that spin and spin.   – Molecules that bounce, unaltered by conventional ways of thinking.

The house of manic has no walls. – We got bored one night and blew them up with toilet bowl cleaner and empty water bottles.

Our favorite phrase at the house of manic is, “it can’t be that hard, can it?” – sometimes prompting us to build home-made solar powered nuclear fusion machines – only to disassemble them the next day because we needed the duct tape for the inflatable swimming pool.

The noise here is constant. -definable sounds of music and typewriter keys – no song ever lasting more than two minutes.  We live off a diet of heat-lamp friend chicken and gas station cappucino, the kitchen long-ago transformed into a moldy piece of living art- dirty glass sculptures piled high to the ceiling.

The foundation of the house is made of grey concrete.  It is covered in poetry written with hot pink retractable sharpie.  We lay on it at night and deconstruct words and ideas and theories.  Conversation is our highest artform.  Followed closely by sex.  We have lots of great sex here.

What we don’t have here is electricity.  We forgot to pay the bill.

Sometimes the neighbors drop by and offer us cookies and alternative ideas of betterment.  “Therapy”, they say, “religion”.  What they don’t understand is that we choose our lizard queen above all other gods.  She gives us a life of measured chaos, time slips, fearless flights and lucid dreaming.

The house of manic is a great place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live here.  – Especially in the winter – it gets cold with no walls and no heat.  And the lizard queen always goes into hibernation.  Our duct tape is replaced with red tape and police tape and we mostly just hold hands and hide out until the sun starts to shine again.

-Then, on to the dreaming – and the worship – and the vodka – and the racing, fleeting thought that nothing matters.

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