Bounce

We haven’t talked about this enough you know. Not swept under the carpet or parked in the car port or docked in the porta-potty. It’s distasteful to use it and not speak of it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for taboos ( I nearly wrote tattoos) but, and this, as it turns out, is a pretty big but, is a different matter all together ( I almost wrote horse of a different color but that always gets me thinking of marching to the beat of a different drummer which leads me into the whole punk wrock[sic, man it’s sick, as in perverse] thing and then, and only then, do I get tempted to kick some body’s ( oeuvre) fucking head in) But I digress.

To return to my point which I had hardly got started on before I forced me to traipse down the fucking garden path, I think the time has come for us all, and I do mean all of us, wall flowers, lurkers, and shiny bright stars -- all, to begin looking inside and I don’t mean via our navels either which are commonly called belly buttons and bellies often have a sort of rubber-like quality that comes from the constant, brutal and short starvation/satiation cycle that we , who are first and foremost ( I almost wrote foremast which I seem to recall is a very specific part of a ship), children of and parents of and stewards of a sort of dream remembered dimly and bouncy, bouncing, bounced – which as you will no doubt recall is a fairly distinctive quality of your average rubber ball.