psychedelic turds

Tonight I went to a small local grocery store, its chief attractions being its all- British-all-the-time 80s soundtrack and its morgue-quality air conditioner.

I entered the ice cream aisle to The Psychedelic Furs' "Love My Way".
Lovely.

Of course the temperature being subarctic, I found myself having to use the restroom. While there I checked up on the "Petaphile" manifesto on Stall # One's left wall...
only to find that it had been dutifully covered up by an entire new sheet of laminate. No whitewashing here. Nope. It was covered over with an entire new sheet of pristine beige plastic, lest the petaphilia bleed through, I guess.
However, our intrepid petaphile prophet had taken his Sharpie to the margins, writing, just as neatly as ever, but smaller:

"They all talk thru my body
and some of you think its me.

If you think I am a petaphile you
are part of a cult."

In the bowl was, well, disgustingly, the title of this post,
pretty much.
Maybe, like the ancients, who could read the future in tea leaves and the entrails of slaughtered animals, our Petaphile prophet had read these too...and got it wrong.
Who knows.
All I know is that he had made no mention whatsoever of his prophetic mistake about the world ending on March 13th...so I flushed it down the toilet and walked out to Roxy Music's "More than This".