Farfisa

I know how you all tickle the brick laden chickens of tomorrow, how you touch the faint scent of a fresh field induced coma. I say rubbish to those extraterrestrial actors of warehouse upbringings, you know who you are. I touch the newly painted kidneys of John Doe, you know the one. We are the ones of observation, stated backwards to knowing absolute. We make love to the black matter that is embedded in the forehead of Mr.Right, we talk gently in hollows.

Now, tell me this Mr.Genie "Why must we put forward those pick bands of coaster holes?". When the tinfoil unfolds in a hooked and nodding fashion, who are we? I sense a scissors-esque china fiddleman on the tip of my nose. "Who am I?" asked Johnny in a quasi-delusional state of nostalgia. Tell me Johnny, "Who am I?".