He Lost The Thread

I’ll probably change when you’re like me.

Who wants a crowd? He lapped adulation.

A frightful thought. Unless he rejects his audience.

I assume few of you know this.

What kind of cretin admires another’s shit?

I should add I ask you. When it’s got passion.

Don’t you mean brightness?

What’s your interpretation? That’ll do.

I believe you. Pass it on.

Look! There’s the next front.

I could do with a change.

Another day over. Have you done your jerks?

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My Bourgeois Vice





I can’t put theory into practice.

I get inspired without implementation.

This cock can’t crow on the dunghill.

He imagines it. I’m doing this.

We’re performing in everyday life. Like my act?

He played his art [of condensation].

He needed a lot of time on his own to polish.

It made him precious.

I was preserved. I went through customs.

Could I use that as a line?

Come back to my space.

Do you want to sharpen perception?

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This Is The End








Our beloved leader has taken us down the foxhole.

Big Daddy: Purveyor of false truths.

The minions gush over their boss.

It strays into the mythical realm of unrestrained idolatry.

Custer’s last stand: the end of Western civilisation.

Praise indeed: the world’s greatest egoist.

Pity the poor president. A tragic figure.

Is this a 19th century convention? Trumpeting family values.

The past only exists as an overture to his
greatness, the unique evil of his enemies.

Fukus history is shrunk to fit his ample figure.

Revealing both to his magnificence and victimhood.

Perception as an object of unparalleled persecution.

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Have you seen my id. I’ve lost it.

Have you tried the cellar? I expect it’s locked.

You can depend on the question.

I’m hardly overcome.

I’ve proved to myself.

He can’t be shaken.

I’m so sure I see myself in others.

Don’t pause! I’ve got to. Why?

Don’t get me wrong. But? He cast doubt.

I conduct others as I compose myself.

Would you lie on his couch?

I see you in the light of my complex.

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Shadow of Assumption








The condemned man caught sight of himself before the hanging.

Are his affairs in order? Was he dead chuffed?

To claim ambiguity’s an understatement.

What do you call someone who makes things up?

God, in his wisdom.

If he were a number one would be doubt.

Don’t you love the certainty of it
must be clear by now I don’t deal.

The nature of performance.

I’m made up beforehand to give the impression.

It lets me be spontaneous.

A characteristic of the specious.

One never appears to others as real.

If I assumed enough about me.

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