The mirror rhymes in single shatters, the carpet stains tell a farfetched story...

Of a fascist mother and dead father, a bleeding child on the roof crying "REBUILD!" The desolator smiles and nods his head, but his gun is giving him a killer headache. And the hair upon that monument metaphor will disperse and his looks won't last long as curious parties avert...

Of a diplomat do-all who misplaced practiced compliments, the mangled crowd has beforehand insinuated his farewell drink. The sandy beaches have either been drowned in foam or returned back into castles. The maid with RLS of a rich man of massive gestures and mild confusions has placed her heart in rainbow sockets where her eyes should have tensioned...

Of a mother of twelve who lived resembling a fairytale, exposed her suitcase and after a mandatory search and seizure, she pulled out suicide idolizing a .36 caliber. The painter watched her in disnay as he painted broken arrows and hearts in her modern arctic hand, the children of the novel grew to either finish off their character or else finish off the story happily ever but after counseling...

Of a preacher of flagellantism crying inside the rain, how can he preside when he can't remember his own name, And the bum who helped him settle his mind with a suggestion of circus balloons or else a genocide. And the exploding ceiling is dancing with flames on the dirt, and the book slammed in your face is almost deafening, your ears in your shirt...

Of a light that flickers up and down, left and right, on and off, in the mind of an unknown poet diseased with writer's block and the media out to photograph this unfortunate ridicule. He screamed, "I don't do that to you,"he'd write it down but he doesn't remember what he said...

Of a vagabond ill-fated with a drinking problem, he has to use a straw. And when he opened the umbrella indoors and "nothing" attacked. Why is it that his collar is always strangling and his laces are always eaten? He needs to catch the bird screaming in his ear, maybe he'll realize the bread that will come tomorrow...

Of a stop sign that moves out of sight, and the trees that bend out of shape. The shoe is just there to make the accident look worse. But how do some stars get so close when the strings attached are only two inces long. The flowers picnic fumes rising from the twisted metal, they are brave enough to shrivel up in plain sight."The aftermath and the irony..."

Of a series of ink questions, What if Jesus was born with tourettes(and he spoke in vain), or if Ray Charles could see how appetizing his fingers looked(and he ate them), And if houses were a forgotten hope, and ideas were meant for burial, would ther be broken mirrors or carpet stains, or this farfetched story...?