I'mmaterial

What is it that’s wrong? What is it that is so fucking cunning as a yellow hooded earthworm that crawls over the white spotted black square tiles fitted on a rectangular floor? The earthworm-shit makes the floor fertile. Yeah, like semen dripping out of a limp penis, who stood erect under the wooden table and spread its glory on the fucking floor. What’s so wrong with this world? Yes, what is it? What is wrong with the acupressure blue slippers that try to find its way around the plastic chairs and it does, to hit the wooden laziness of the bed and cries its coldblooded eyes to death. The world’s inside these four fucking walls, mate. The world doesn’t really give a fuck. The world wants you to cum the fuck out of this life in your impotent imaginations. What is that makes people squirm underneath their skins and ache for a piece of this or that – materialistic shit, yeah. You are the material, mate. The world has disappeared outside those four walls, you shit. You don’t have a ceiling. You are exposed. They are gonna rain bombs on you. They are gonna find you and squeeze everything out of you. They will ask you to fucking live. Who gives a fuck? The earth, man. The earth. Show some empathy. Show a little this, a little that. Give them a peek. You ain’t no one. You ain’t nothing. Just another worm crawling under the boring blue skies of eternal misery. The earth’s your place, man. You ought to do your shit here, make it fertile. Give something back. Don’t act like this dim-witted yellow eyed sociopath who squints at the sunshine. It’s really cold out here. But it’s happy, ain’t it?