Cuckooning

We're just a rule, just a mirror, we're your blitz, we eat your skins, your tatoos and your latest smile. We're all, out of a sudden nothing, we blame all these guys that aren't us, that aren't free, that do not kiss each you and each me. We lie a lot, and die on mondays, we try some mornings, when we're unhappy to play. We keep our cockroaches, we eat them fried, we'll open a restaurant where all is dry, and painful, and delights will be for another blind eye. Only, if you dare or feel misunderstood, you'll be the only one. The golden hand, the ignorant goddess, the one who slept into the pinky waters. And all the gloves, waving goodbye to mistaken eyes, to blind viewers, to helpless fingers. They do not care, for a single minute, they play their role and just ignore it, smiling at you, smiling at the void they wanted to unbuild. It's a night to give up, a moon that smiles at you and teaches you how to leave your cosy clouds. Cottonland, big bye and true kisses. With loads of loaves of fancy foam. Abbey, come on, Lee, make us totally Kershaw, thrown in the story by the one and only-lonely glasses-holder Terry, son of an unknown Richard as his name seems to say.