Vain Repetition

Like Totally seeks separation from the cloudy flow that swells from the meaning.

She locks herself up in the deep-deep cave and turns on the music, but lyrics are leaking the meaning.

She must run upstairs for a bottle of red-red wine.

It sucks, that she turns to this measure remembering her son-alcoholic warning that she is eligible, too.

But how else can she shield the meaning that shouts into her ears making them deaf for life?

How else can she pick up a brush and charge it with paint to release the first feeble smear and welcome the first startling mistake?

Now as she cannot rely on her meaning any more, painting may start making sense.

She releases herself squirting paint like a penis deeply invested in the process of vain repetition.