Too Many Beaches

Turning off the knobs that start the flow of irrigation.
Every dandy is lined with golden sunshine  
and the dangle of each bloom  
consumes bees with a necessary honey.
The flowing course goes into twisted passages  
and all at once splitting each pistol in two.
I shove the shell open but it spits its demonically possessed pearl out at me onto the floor, calling out into an open garage with speared slices of core roast.
By the time it matters most I smoke so much ganj that I feel like toast.  
Splitting in two might be necessary
because I think sitting in circles is scary.
 
There are too many seashells, too much to ask.
It is demonically possessed and spitting pearls out onto the floor.
Split up parts of life are scattered into corners and when the scales have found balance an eager hand will stop pulling.
Crafty made up directions draping a lifestyle independently
made of sugar cubes.
There are too many beaches full of broken sea shells.
Too much toast.
Not enough of it matters most.
There they were sharing a roast
when they had no clue, all they once had
now possessed a new shade of blue
with demons and their crafty made up directions,
high on sugar cubes and crunchy sea shell thoughts
that turn their brains into toast.
Because each pearl of a thought matters to the balance
and demons never spit anything worse than moses
and each floor that kissed the cheeks of masses
of eager pulling lifestyles that came  
scattering to the floor broken.
Never did matter.
Mostly just did.