Dolphin Love is paper thin like teen bromance.

You to see a five foot tall gerbil staring at from the edge of your bed, he looks at you with a condescending look and starts speaking in Russian in a thick Andalusian accent, not just any Russian but all dead literary and musical greats, for this is not just any gerbil it is your subconscious.  It seems to be just like the time you were in Nogales and that man sold you a bottle of tequila and at the bottom was a gerbil, oh how did that gerbil get in the bottom of the bottle you thought, it was only after you sobered up that it turned into a plastic red ball and the was your super subconscious.  You speak back screaming at the top of your lungs to that gerbil, but it ignores you like the lamp post and that is your ego.  The lamp post outside your apartment with its unrelenting eye of light peering into your mind with its electromagnetic impulses that it can’t stop, it’s all alternating current to you who cares not for ohms and ahh’s of the underworld of electronic subsystems.

 

It’s shock or be shocked in the throes of the subculture of electricians.  Trade shows, architectural diagrams, circuits of circuits, it will fry your brain.  You beg and plead to the lamp post: “No more, I can’t take the strain!”  It’s an empty beg, like a paper bag full of plain popcorn at the movie theater, you explicitly said more butter, please more butter and it’s like he didn’t even hear you, not ignoring, just nothing, like your plea never registered, in his mind there is and has never been any butter for your popcorn ever in the universe and all its wonderful dimensions in the infinity of time.

 

Plain kernels, popped with hot air, white and tasteless like rednecks at a symphony orchestra concert about farting and spitting written for the legally blind and fans of cans never opened that have been in a river for ten years and had all of the soda pop soaked and leeched out of them like a man’s soul at Lilith Fair.