The Conveyance

Vivid imagery assults the mind, a crime worth 20 years without parole. Luridly colourful, when the meaning of lurid ceases properly define the form of grotesqueness. The function becomes vestigial and the meaning is lost to creationists. Run with me, towards a destination of pure potential, where mother chaos will suckle us lovingly. Skip thoughts like stones, never pass long enough to wonder at the depth. Dark things lurk below, frightening and scary until brought up to the surface, whereupon they are seen to be pale, gasping shadows of an idea. The depth lies in the breadth. The mysteries of the land or of the ocean are of little matter to the character development which transpires within and without. Concentrate too long and a hunched figure with poor eyesight and worse skin is left, a shell of a mocking form.

The shotgun effect of writing, where any brilliance is unintentional. The greater the lack of delicacy, then the increased artistry? The mundanity of profanity has made limited the shock and awe of a language. The need to push the envelope has been overshadowed by a schizophrenic desire to kick the fucking desk over, jump into a loincloth and hold a blood sacrifice. There is no longer shock but disgust, the grim leftovers of a college party. Drunken co-eds, spilt beer, empty pizza boxes and piles of vomit lovingly left underneath the family poinsetta. Run on sentences sit alongside piss lines on the backyard fence.