'You are just like zero to me even if you smell of glee and... open the boot, bad breather! Where is my glee? Did you take my glee? Where is my daughter? Is she combing the barbie in the boot?'
In this story I am a loser, big dreams crushed hard. Forced to leave the city after a sentimental breakdown.
As I remember, her verbal abuse was thickening and the voice pounding my mind.
Now I am walking the cow, retired in nature. The silence in the bushes is as dense as a milkshake.
A troll heckles my head. To release the pressure in my psyche, I do soliloquy.
And you see, words impute rattle of leaves and puffs of breeze. Nature gulps me.
And here comes the idea that an existence cannot be justified without plough. In the greenery I plant glee for the council estate.
They say glee spreads when you cry by solitude in your room. The aim is to use the plants to tangle the legs of little ones and rise them above love hunger.
It may be caused by missing fathers – men are always the hollow fiascos to tickle the dented china and depart.
Followed by the maids of Orleans in search of independence and teenagers' casual kisses, the addicted mothers.
Or the cheerladies fanning new heroes, the widows who cannot take it anymore and mirage playgrounds into cemetery.
It is said parental love is scourged. This estate's infants holds it in a fist, well hidden behind their backs.
Maybe one day the unicorn will blow it out of their hands like a dandelion, when all the area will be cleared and regenerated, of course.
In the meantime, the leaves of glee are ascending with the reclaims from children. Little eyes in pain forget easily with full bellies the grim of the estate.
But nature is my shepherd and my solace. It pets me. It grooms me like a gaunt odd glove.
In the afternoon I sit on my porch and ruminate about the hoe who broke my heart and I get mean.
That's when I loaf around the dusky liquor shop in the corner and peddle the glee surplus to younger generation. So I am not good man after all.
In this outside so beautiful I spend my days fearing the Reapers. Faceless angels – black monsters with one thousand hoods- threaten my crop.
They were dispossessed when the tower blocks were razed for the golf club. So thirsty for land they will siege my field.
I understand they were kids once. Throughout the years sockets have been implanted in their eye bags. They have crystal drops of ice sculptures effigiating their pop idols.
-Their heroes are in videos of things, viaticum for flying cars, fast fashion, jeans burn-out like candles.
Exhausted before the tremor of adulthood, catching experiences and partners as scorched desire to imitate these idols on videos -
Because of what they smoke, they cough like hounds in December. Sledge dogs abandoned for reindeer.
The horny pullers are much slender, females, blessed with the look which is a guarantee to be taken care and cured.
While the male species in the Reapers, amorph, with frothy mouth, are trod on like a tapestry of tattoos
With inspirational quotes – too bland to follow, too obvious to be practical- with oversized trainers
that detach them from the ground, high in the deluded skies.
When storms howl the prairies at night, you hear them by the limbs adorned with trinkets babbling with wind.
The villagers bolt themselves in, afraid like the elderlies when sport cars gas the roads
But the bling seemingly ceases in July with the fireflies, as the rowdy Reapers didn't trust themselves fully in the heat.
I am an exile, as you know, who collects books in a cabin in the mountain and I go to valley only to plant the glee.
But I read the trend for adornment is feminine so no fear, love, no fear of the engraved Reapers. Plus my friend is a dj who saw one hooded monster screens his blank pupils and urinate like a dog.
A virility unroofed. The sex of the angels. From Cain's clan.
So I instructed my daughter to bark at them and disperse.
“Where is my glee? Where is my daughter? I made this rap, but was it purposeful? I got no tutor. Take it as a rehearsal. I got no fame, just bucks for a divorceful. I am not ducking the calls of worship. Janitor, release my daughter from the boot”
ere to edit.