wh oo m ph

a volatile condition, like imploding in space, no noise. silent combustion. the only evidence is a slowly reddening exterior and a firmly, tightly neatly sewn mouth. its a condition , asked once by god/fate/chance,/some embodiment of the random chaos, what if anything one would want to change if randomness can be put aside for a moment the answer would be... it would be the lack of mutey, my silent friend. Mutey with the lips sewn shut, with the aspect of a child with the sudden loss of anything in the mental cavity but the resounding boom of NOT TALKING, YOURE NOT TALKING, WHY ARENT YOU TALKING, EVERYONE ELSE IS TALKING, TALK,TALK....i would put mutey on the last train to frankston and say adious , pick up Sir Talks alot from platform two, tie sir talks alot to my frontal lobe and walk on forever, babbling, whooping, filling crevices with the luxorious sound of my voice. For this i hope, the great kelly dream, to at once be blessed with the power of speech in social situations and the ability to shut the hell up when im drunk.