My heart has me enslaved: way down at the bottom of the ocean it seems, making waves by dancing to its own music; a giant deranged crab toppling the ships of my thoughts.
We used to have a yellow car, which I particularly enjoyed. The circumstances by which we lost it were rather unfortunate, and involve circumstances around the manufacture of things which needn't make the outside of a home less attractive, but inevitably do for that children are taught to draw houses that look like huts. And when they find they must stretch their imagination to the outside of that which they're living in, they come across a path of least resistance called the good old days.
In the good old days the garden flowed to the edge of the street, and anyone who urinated in a public right of way was arrested. People who could afford cars often found themselves driven to the necessity of making their home less attractive by introducing a means of deterrant. Those naughty boys who applied their God-given intellect to that of jump-starting cars, unfortunately had to share cells with urinating criminals who God gave nothing.
The yellow car wasn't stolen: the factory, which also made pool fences, had to shut its own gates for the last time because of a bunch of thieves who worked for it. They were not Aryan: this is a significant detail because they were stealing business and giving it to people of their own race.
When the car was something we hardly remembered, I met with people who believed in mixed marriages. One such person seemed to be offended by the word load, and told me to prevaricate in case someone chuckled at my not knowing they gave it two meanings. I was unable to disburden myself of that load at the time for my inexperience. That done I recall being told that if you can make a girl laugh you can fuck her. But with not being able to find anyone who didn't complain about the shocking condition of the country, which some said was foretold in Revelations, and who then changed the subject so as to make each other laugh--would you believe it?--I lost my sense of humour.
Most of the complaints about this country that I recall hearing seem to be just like a fuck: a short emotional outburst done in emulation of the parents. People particularly like their security when they're fucking. I took to the streets when such conversations started around me, and shouted at people with weak bladders who didn't plan their journeys around modern inconveniences.
My thoughts are tankers now. They don't have a crew to speak of, but the men are worth their salt, as of old: all vie for the position of captain, who has the only priviledge of going down with the ship. I was thinking with fond memories about a moment in my life in which I believed I had discovered the meaning of life itself. This embarrassed me because I had been laughing along about natal machines since others had offloaded their conceptual humour. Everyone knows to ask a girl who's pregnant who the father is, but everyone knows it only takes a jerk.
You'll notice that experts refer to old seamen when the ocean does something they previously said it shouldn't. You'll notice the same effect when coffee is dumped into the waters.
Krakens and crabs share the burden.