I speak doublespeak. Eye dew. Forked tongue, like a snake. Snakes don't speak. They hiss. Sibilant speech speaks slytherin...I am Jessssse Tessshara. Jesssse Lawrencssssse Tesssshara, to be precssssicssse. Csssertainly not Jessssusss Chrissst.
Like letting air out of tires. Or hissing one's vitriolic disapproval. Or getting attention: pssst! Over here! There's a flow to it, like pissing. Anger, pissed off. Like urine, you're in, and yelling ow, because it's yellow. You're all the rage. On the rag. Like Ragu pasta sauce. Pasta, like a past A in some school of fish. Noodles in your swimming pool. A pool shark at billiards. You've got balls. Maybe you're out in the garage. Openly homosexual in a gay-rage. Listening to Phish, eating phish-food eye scream, or maybe the foo-fighters. Ssssss. I cannot tell a lie. Wait, that's Washington. Dubya told a whopper. Eating president cheese at BK. Drinking the blood of the vine in your VW. The btk killer at BK (without the t). What is the price of t in China? I'd like to buy a vowel, Pat.
Death is hated, rearranged. Head T. If you're mental, you're mad. Cross. Madness is what you think, how you think, the fact that you think, or maybe are always are thinking. The consciousness con. You don't want Hannibal Lecter in your head, as they say. There's someone in your head, but it's not me, sing Pink Floyd. Ping goes the submarine, in the Roger Waters, flo-ing. Mad because they call you insane, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sane in the membrane! Hugs, not drughs. Just say no. What floats your boat, in the Seine. Thinking about thing ink. Object-oriented program language? Thinking makes you the thing king. We are living in a material world, sings mad material-girl madonna. Through thick and thin. Thick Buddha is happy, they say. Ignorance is bliss. Knowing, biblically, well that can be pleasurable, too. You're mind, the ice, thawing with thought. Break the ice, mining the mind, eventually breaking hearts and causing pain, like a cypher, breaking codes and getting everyone's number. Time's up when it has your number, they say. There's birthday and deathday: what will you have on your Tombstone? Pizza toppings at Infinite Thai (it's a restaurant). Time flows between birth to death, every moment connected by a stream of consciousness, whether inky blackness of sleep, dreaming, prayer, thoughts, speech, writing, or looking out a car window (at one damn thing after another, as they say of history) ad nauseum, or listening to song after song, reading book after book, from door to door, window to window (of opportunity); daily life's process of selection between possibilities, options, choices. Maybe too few, maybe too many, maybe without a guide. Life flows from birthday to birthday, month to month, week to week, day to day, in repetitive routines and of course the fated necessity of dealing with what life throws at you, always doing what you have to do, ofen experienced as a lack of freedom. A dizzying array of too much freedom, and an inability to choose activities, dates, supermarket food choices, whatever, can leave you frozen. Justice, just ice. Global warming and hell and disney's frozen and immigration and customs enforcement and Isis all come to mind, which itself is called ice in Neuromancer, like OJ in concentrate, ponder that. Making waves. There's always a bigger fish.
Authors eat their words with tongue on their forks. Lengua, the mexican burrito of choice. Or maybe alphabet soup. Or maybe the author wrote a cookbook. Don't mind me. Nevermind, says Nirvana. All right, if you ceso. GM: grey matter is no laughing matter, unless the general manager of general motors is a fungi. The church babyroom, quiet room: Shh! I'm growing shrooms! Robert Plant sings to his vegetables, but the tree made no sound when it Fell.