Around Peacocks

If you think of life as a bubblegum forest with marshmallow snow it's easy to miss the sour patch kids smoking pixie sticks in the clearing by the remnants of the old redwood which is why I know that you know with all the clarity of catastrophically extreme weather that most starfish sing singularly well when threatened with dehydration and eternal crispness but cannot seem to recognize the passive aggressive click-y son of a bitch behaviour that crops up out of some perceived slight that went off like a sawed off nerf-gun where someone took the fall to distract the ref and the poor guy all but stubbed his toe in shock which turned bewildered coupon clipping right turns on double red lights which never end well not because blue lights meant men in the yard working and the satellite radio of their little star fish consciences flashed sirius warnings about their righteous indignation but because they decided of a unit to jusgo to London where the thames called too sweet and they got lost in a sea of tortoise's and tropical fish which were quite happening that year while all the while the peacocks in their eternal wisdom realized that there is not now nor has there ever been any right in it. Poor things – all legs and no direction. Tsk.