Ever more dissatisfactory than the wrought inheritance brought forth by bankruptcy of character, our thoughts of Swiss cheese benevolence really have no bearing on what it means to be a profitable avocado salesman in this neck of the woods. Don’t get me wrong, I have long-espoused numerous methods for informing individuals of their folksy ties to the apocalypse, but I choose to evaluate sparingly, for the more a person speaks his or her mind, the more likely they are to compromise their mystique. I don’t personally take my old rapturous censorship more seriously than the average ridged potato chip, though perhaps I should. Perhaps I should. Egads! All this food talk has done me the ages-old disservice of fabricating hunger pangs when my stomach really had no business engaging in such a thought sequence. Well, my stomach has no business engaging in any thought sequences, but that’s neither here nor there.
Laugh at the endeavors of a poet. They’re too idealized, infantile, idiotic, idiosyncratic to be real and applicable in our modern society of vast civilization and designed scarcity (not to mention obsolescence). A word will change with its people, a poet will laugh at those people in a different language.
Laughing through words proves difficult most times, unless a kindred spirit laughs along at the farce that was invented when the ones who held all the wealth decided that distributing these valued materials across hordes of commoners would immortalize the innovators of the shackling system; those benevolent givers still have their faces on dirty coins today, unseeing and ignorant to the ridicule they’ve imposed upon their children.