Liar, liar, pants on fire, must be coming out your ass. How you think of stories so fast, to avoid living your own past. And use the future to suture the wounds that don’t suit you so you can plan a brand new stance to post up in the club next weekend. Erased your search history, so just what are you seeking? Because you don’t seem to be peaking eating the produce you’ve been seeding. Almost like you didn’t see what you buried in too little fertility. Grand abundance of shit, you didn’t compost any of it, growing fuzzy and fly buzzing but not a single tomato on it. One thing the lie seed never seems to grow. Anything edible. Something so simple. As living in a world instead of a nation, responsible for choices but not for creation. On your throne like a flea on a dog, like a God, no kingdom on earth so you trespass heaven. Three thousand eleven. You will have no more children in this place. The you part of you will be lost to outer space, because you can’t remember which planets most familiar. All the stories you told made you cold keeping you old though you were young enough to know better. Liar, liar, get a grip like a pair of pliers. Come to terms with your own past. Fast. Or you will always live like there is fire under your ass.