Battered

You just bash your own skull with strange mannerisms, and - from afar, you see yourself - numb and bleeding, yet you retain a distance - a necessity - you adapt to a "third-man view" of oneself in-order-to collapse back - finally! - into a "first hand-man", and then you whip yourself out of such stupor, you fall back again on ideas seldom seen but brought back into the light, yes, again, and you don't wait any longer for clocks to tick-tock to the dime and nickel of numbers and hands, you wait-not for hand-on-hand proper-time to get things done, you smash the stately temporal affinities and you jump up like a foaming-mouthed dog and scream like a bitch for all Christ's Sake, and you demand of all things - of all beings - that they cease to bumble and hamper the joyous struting of the strong bodied magnets (nesting, nesting [+/-]) . . . no!, the magnetic antagonisms will shatter the temporal, the tepid, and the temperate wankers. The boastful yet lazy souls will collapse into inertia-inducing pits and this will do no harm to those with tears and laughter, tears and laughter, for just a little bit of frailty cannot detract away from the immensity of a shining sun, nor can the squalor of piggity-poo-ha sequester the nimble into lousy lousy lousy days.