Blunt Rs and bad tunes

I cut open my arm.
Who’s there?
Asks who?
Show yourself, Open up.

I roll-on like a mobius strip, and I roll on my stomach. Roll! I roll my Rs and say nothing other than rolled Rs. 

“Rrrrrr-Rrrrrr”.

“Writing is like that”, I was about to say, then writing is just another vulgar tongue.  I hate nothing more than those arrogant bitches who write and plead clemency. Why should a trickster be spared, when everyone rolls on their stomach without making a big deal out of it. One major difference between the two;  writers do not harm themselves only, like those who roll anyway. Writing harms both ways. Why suffer alone? Any contact is a good contact.

Then there are ways one can roll. Some observe their rolls quietly, some sing their Rs. Some sing their Rs so fine, they do not cut anymore. Yet many never miss a chance to misspeak with blunt Rs and bad tunes.

I do not know of many who died of a paper cut but everyone I know has suffered a few, and quietly so. Some contacts are quiet, some announce their Rs. What is done; is being done. Makes no difference.  There’s no getting around the spinning without fixing your gaze on something, anything. Nothing spins in the void.