g-rated blues

today, i met with the chance of having to go to my driver's house. it was a dilapidated thatched single-roomed hut and it made me very nervous to go near it. i could say the driver was quite nervous to have me there too. as i was walking to and from the house, i felt the burden of a kubillion hard and cold eyes on me. there was noone to look at me, however. i realise that the world is what you make of it. its hard to tell what makes you, because
you're too much in the middle of being you.
howlin wolves sing deep blue songs to put the moon into a mellow sleep.  
she walks on duty; she walks in plight.
the guitarists rocking the cradled-up night.
pretty-pepper. sweet and poor. potted plants and leaf-edges wasted and burning.
too self-obsessed as a child. mild always, except on the flower bed where the killers are wild, and so are i, and i's eyes, which are glued to her walky talks. fire drill's the cure, babe.