primal soup

I now announce that i am no longer a surrealist.
I have met nicer friends who are not surrealists and  i found many surrealists to be quite nasty.
I am not a revolutionary or a rebel.
Mostly, i am a reactionary, i think.
Yes, i am closest to the reactionary which i think is a bit like being close to a pain receptor.
And on the bus the other day i had a clear vision of wild horses and i knew they were reactionaries.
And so it follows that revolutionaries are not wild horses.
I don't know what they are.
It is my birthday next month and i’d really like some peace.
I’d like not to get in as many fights and so will make efforts to avoid them.
Also, i think i am like one of those stray dogs in hotter parts that roam the beaches befriending tourists.
I feel like one of those dogs when i eat greasy take-out food yet still feel very healthy and beautiful.
Despite all warning about un-health i think taking the body for granted is one way of enjoying it.
And to be warned mayonnaise is full of oil only makes me think how shiny-golden the dogs fur is.
I don't want my breath be-jewelled this evening so i drink chamomile and tuck myself in and am happy to not be angry.
A subtle tepid taste as though lapping up a summer-time puddle.
Neutrally bland but if i were to drink margaritas every day i’d be a drunk and full of sugar. Also, id be a decadent.
I prefer salt.
Sugar, sometimes. Creamy sugar.
When i eat ice cream i imagine i am feeding from the great cow, whom i love. And imagine myself all plumpish and loved in return. I am a cow.
And soon i want to write about eggs because i am also a chicken.
And i want to glorify that.
But not ornately; the cow is drawn in dusty charcoal and the chicken grey pencils. Scratchy and primal.
I feel accomplished when i am artless.
A smirk.
Goodnight.
(I am about to watch south park, i conclude it is my nightly substitute mother)