call me wine, oh! It's so prepossessing. It's got like, all the punch of soda and like, all the fermentation of nothing else.
Nothing else will I allow to stain my face.
I walk around with wine all the time. It matches my Heather Plants.
The bottle seems very charming when distorted through my glass.
These three are so charming next to each other like a nice oil painting.
It's a still of my life - heather and reverie.
I often have dreams of Reverie.
In my imagination I'm questing for dragons and tooting on my ole mouth harp.
The wine in my glass harmonizes vibratto like a bull in the heather.
Wine, oh! I talk to any old chum on the tri-via.
I'm decided
There I am, chewing mind gum with a friend. I look cute because my cheeks are rosy.
I titter and twitter and stutter and stitter.
Stittering is like laughing and poking people's stomachs at once.
There's nothing like it. I and Wine become close chums with every stitter.
Oh but sometimes wine really pisses me off! You know we miss each other every school day and then he's so violent with me when we meet again.
What have you been thinking about when I was away, Wine?
You make my lips embarrassingly colored purple.
I keep thinking you told our friends something weird about me.
They won't tell me what it is. Their eyes dart away just when I think they shall talk to me. You made me smell funny like a bull in a bathroom.
You are making my emotions violent and my arms violent, I am an ineffectual old boxer!
I can't fight with you for long with you in my embrace.
You keep me coming home again.
I think I will stay with you all day in bed. I'm reading a book and really crying.
Murakami is such a nice writer:
His glamour makes me cry all the time. You're my friend right?
What if you had a friend who cried all the time?
What if you had a friend who screamed all the time?
Your phone vibrates, baby. It's me. I'm chilling with Wine, why?
Are you getting jealous? It doesn't befit your rosy cheeks, this gray jealousy.
The wine and I are getting well along and you're just jealous.
Want to hang out next Wednesday? Our friendship won't ever burn out.
No matter how many times I kick you in the iron balls. That's because they're made of iron.
I'm glad and you're glad I bet that you were fitted with those.
Let's have some wine, oh! I almost forgot, you don't drink.
You told me in a message that Wine was getting to me.
You said, "You're like a ghost!"
It's alright being a ghost. You don't have any of the typical responsibilities.
You get to gallivant.
Why can't I gallivant without Wine? Well, because Wine awakens my.
My society is so stuffy and I feel it crushing down on my impulses. Why can't adults skip or play in the snow? Why do they have to be so quiet and avoid each other's glances? Why can't I laugh about misfortune and build sandcastles in the snow? Why can't I laugh about people farting in the bathroom? Why can't I laugh about people falling down? Why can't I laugh about fat children on bicycles? I really want to. It's who I am. But I don't want to be a Unabomber either.
Wine says I can do anything. Wine lets me sleep whenever I want. Wine lets me lick people's necks and yell and run around in bijou flats. He says I can buy plants and line my room with used condoms. He says be yourself, a ghost! A ghost a ghost a ghost of your ambitions! Everyone knows you didn't choose any of that alone, wine let you make the choice by removing your free will. Selling your soul. Selling your soldier. Sellfing your selfdom. Selfrich selfmeat immaterial selflessness. Selfershelferdelphia.
Wine, oh! I am a ghost with you, but sometimes that's better than being a lump of spaghetti stuck to the ceiling. (come on get in the car)
I'm with Wine in my kitchen. I'm giving his love to my friends. (i wanna take your breath away) They seem to like it. You make me feel so crazy!
(I won't hurt you) Something that came from an orchard can't hurt you. Monks love wine.
That's why they're so devout.
Wine, oh! You're so devout.
Saturday
Thursday
Batman Realizes He's Culturally Schizophrenic
Commissioner Gordon listens to Wes Montgomery on YouTube.
He gets the feeling he should do some work.
He calls Batman with a big light and waits outside in the fucking Frigid-air.
When Batman arrives the Commissioner straightens up and puts on his glorious mustache.
He explains fumblingly, " There is some fetor, some smog, some ..heavy vaporous cloud enveloping the city! We got back the unit search module data on Organic CCTV! You've got to breathe it for us and spit it out like fire! "
Batman said,
"Commissioner..
Heavy vapor, my ass."
[Batman has had some heartbreaking memories.
Then and Now
He's rich and debonair.
He's poor and gruff.
He's a super hero but no one knows him.]
Batman asks the dark night,
" How am I to have a Thought outside of my head? "
Batman leaves without a word, making easy friends.
One of his friends is Wes Montgomery's King Pixel form.
He and Batman enjoy playing Final Fantasies together.
At times they don't even realize their Quest is for VI Dragons.
They imbibe comfort from Heros whom lie to himself like Communion Wine.
The Heroism which seemed like Home to them was really a Black Habit.
Batman was called on at the local upside-down-Abbey.
He hates the bald cenobites that Implore here.
The Abbot was close-by though, so at the outset, Batman didn't mind those other Flip-Side-Bros.
But the Abbot to Batman, he said some disturbing things,
"Gotham has a long history of not respecting artists or intellectualism. We're seriously f*cked up as a country, at least culturally. That's why utter dogsh*t like The Joker rules the charts and airwaves. We hang on to every word of Bruce Wayne and his ilk, as if they have anything profound or important to say. Money is worshipped [sic] in this country, and it's somehow been twisted around where if you are very wealthy, you're also somehow perceived as "smart". That's beyond pitiful."
Batman always says the same to Abbots,
" Oh god, Abbots, they just don't like the psalms you sing. You ask for repentance and all you'll get is cash. You gotta keep it real with the peasants, represent what? My nuts! "
He gets the feeling he should do some work.
He calls Batman with a big light and waits outside in the fucking Frigid-air.
When Batman arrives the Commissioner straightens up and puts on his glorious mustache.
He explains fumblingly, " There is some fetor, some smog, some ..heavy vaporous cloud enveloping the city! We got back the unit search module data on Organic CCTV! You've got to breathe it for us and spit it out like fire! "
Batman said,
"Commissioner..
Heavy vapor, my ass."
[Batman has had some heartbreaking memories.
Then and Now
He's rich and debonair.
He's poor and gruff.
He's a super hero but no one knows him.]
Batman asks the dark night,
" How am I to have a Thought outside of my head? "
Batman leaves without a word, making easy friends.
One of his friends is Wes Montgomery's King Pixel form.
He and Batman enjoy playing Final Fantasies together.
At times they don't even realize their Quest is for VI Dragons.
They imbibe comfort from Heros whom lie to himself like Communion Wine.
The Heroism which seemed like Home to them was really a Black Habit.
Batman was called on at the local upside-down-Abbey.
He hates the bald cenobites that Implore here.
The Abbot was close-by though, so at the outset, Batman didn't mind those other Flip-Side-Bros.
But the Abbot to Batman, he said some disturbing things,
"Gotham has a long history of not respecting artists or intellectualism. We're seriously f*cked up as a country, at least culturally. That's why utter dogsh*t like The Joker rules the charts and airwaves. We hang on to every word of Bruce Wayne and his ilk, as if they have anything profound or important to say. Money is worshipped [sic] in this country, and it's somehow been twisted around where if you are very wealthy, you're also somehow perceived as "smart". That's beyond pitiful."
Batman always says the same to Abbots,
" Oh god, Abbots, they just don't like the psalms you sing. You ask for repentance and all you'll get is cash. You gotta keep it real with the peasants, represent what? My nuts! "
Wednesday
Purply Lemons
notice a looking man, maybe lonely, eating some purpley lemons,
sitting at a writing desk bench.
I observe.
The sheen of the plastic-finished desk is a light brown.
Its scratches are 50 years of scribbles and carvings to a loud noise rock solo.
It sucks.
It seems he's colored his lemons using some frustrating dyeing process.
He perhaps loves flowers.
He perhaps dislikes yellow things. His hatreds are perhaps rerouted with dye.
His hair: it looks the color of dusty red stained glass!
Perhaps this haircut, perhaps this lemon: these are his altars!
he prays to the sour fruits borne from bushes,
he colors his golden calves purple,
he purposes idolatry towards reverse idolatry!
Preparing to kill him:
I draw him a picture of a lemon.
I draw him a crystal calf and his creator--some jackass artist.
I wrote him a note,
"I see that you like idolatry and disgusting chemicals.
You select ugly writing-desks on purpose and you like unnatural food.
You're a nasty plebeian. You hate yellow.
You've got an anti-intellectualist agenda!"
I walk to his place at the table,
and offer him these observations.
As he considers the materials, I see a kinky orange smile emerge on his lips.
He turns his head as slowly as a noble owl.
Although he can't reach even 180 degrees--
He smiles. Crows feet betray his weakness.
He says,
"I see you're a very perceptive kinda guy!
It's not everyday I meet someone so willing to share
their most vulnerable thoughts!
pause.
Would you eat a purple lemon?"
I accept.
sitting at a writing desk bench.
I observe.
The sheen of the plastic-finished desk is a light brown.
Its scratches are 50 years of scribbles and carvings to a loud noise rock solo.
It sucks.
It seems he's colored his lemons using some frustrating dyeing process.
He perhaps loves flowers.
He perhaps dislikes yellow things. His hatreds are perhaps rerouted with dye.
His hair: it looks the color of dusty red stained glass!
Perhaps this haircut, perhaps this lemon: these are his altars!
he prays to the sour fruits borne from bushes,
he colors his golden calves purple,
he purposes idolatry towards reverse idolatry!
Preparing to kill him:
I draw him a picture of a lemon.
I draw him a crystal calf and his creator--some jackass artist.
I wrote him a note,
"I see that you like idolatry and disgusting chemicals.
You select ugly writing-desks on purpose and you like unnatural food.
You're a nasty plebeian. You hate yellow.
You've got an anti-intellectualist agenda!"
I walk to his place at the table,
and offer him these observations.
As he considers the materials, I see a kinky orange smile emerge on his lips.
He turns his head as slowly as a noble owl.
Although he can't reach even 180 degrees--
He smiles. Crows feet betray his weakness.
He says,
"I see you're a very perceptive kinda guy!
It's not everyday I meet someone so willing to share
their most vulnerable thoughts!
pause.
Would you eat a purple lemon?"
I accept.
explain your friends
while usually i love your ideas,
staying up late
lately i think you're merely a pretty meaninglessness.
let you help me,
explain.
since it will make it easier, I'll pretend you're someone you don't understand:
a man with three arms.
a man with three thousand friends.
(or a woman, with these same constraints)
he waves to me on his way to class with three arms.
at parties she blows me three kisses. each just kidding.
we once spoke and he recited an anecdote about grape problems.
occasionally, she posts three comments in one hour on my wall:
one link he likes, one comment, one like he links.
her arms tick the time in rhythm, never missing a beat.
what don't you understand? me.
me's so self-centered, actually.
since it will make it easier, here's something about me:
i have three arms,
and i have three thousand friends!
staying up late
lately i think you're merely a pretty meaninglessness.
let you help me,
explain.
since it will make it easier, I'll pretend you're someone you don't understand:
a man with three arms.
a man with three thousand friends.
(or a woman, with these same constraints)
he waves to me on his way to class with three arms.
at parties she blows me three kisses. each just kidding.
we once spoke and he recited an anecdote about grape problems.
occasionally, she posts three comments in one hour on my wall:
one link he likes, one comment, one like he links.
her arms tick the time in rhythm, never missing a beat.
what don't you understand? me.
me's so self-centered, actually.
since it will make it easier, here's something about me:
i have three arms,
and i have three thousand friends!
Friday
Untitled
I am sorry if you waited long.
When I get one of these portals into the Internet I find it hard to focus on anything else!
There're big letters and boxes written in backlight. Right in front of us.
I'm listening to the library noises and entering secret codes and learning about unlogged forests so I can barely think about
the sun going down.
The trees grow up from seeds to saplings to trees.
They sponge water with capillary action-packed surface tension.
The life-force gushes upwards and the limbs's leaves brim like a fountain.
Each of the pulsing veins feed the water into the buds.
Green plasma draws power from the electronic sun rays.
And there our lungs collapse.
So we can live! Can't say anything bad about these broccoli boys.
By the way, I'm sorry this was so late at night!
My knight in shining armor.
My Goliath.
My deepest rose-hued step-brother.
This whole of time is now. This piece of time is titanium steel. It's 13:57 out of 24:00.
You, know.
My alarm rings more loudly later on, you know?
At Whatever Hour.
When I get one of these portals into the Internet I find it hard to focus on anything else!
There're famous people glowing in back-light. Right in front of us.
I'm listening to the library noises and entering secret codes and learning about dead forest in Borneo so I can barely think about
the sun going down.
I am sorry if you waited long.
When I get one of these portals into the Internet I find it hard to focus on anything else!
There're big letters and boxes written in backlight. Right in front of us.
I'm listening to the library noises and entering secret codes and learning about unlogged forests so I can barely think about
the sun going down.
The trees grow up from seeds to saplings to trees.
They sponge water with capillary action-packed surface tension.
The life-force gushes upwards and the limbs's leaves brim like a fountain.
Each of the pulsing veins feed the water into the buds.
Green plasma draws power from the electronic sun rays.
And there our lungs collapse.
So we can live! Can't say anything bad about these broccoli boys.
By the way, I'm sorry this was so late at night!
My knight in shining armor.
My Goliath.
My deepest rose-hued step-brother.
This whole of time is now. This piece of time is titanium steel. It's 13:57 out of 24:00.
You, know.
My alarm rings more loudly later on, you know?
At Whatever Hour.
When I get one of these portals into the Internet I find it hard to focus on anything else!
There're famous people glowing in back-light. Right in front of us.
I'm listening to the library noises and entering secret codes and learning about dead forest in Borneo so I can barely think about
the sun going down.
I am sorry if you waited long.
Wednesday
People Peat Moss
Light green peoples' liverworted and mossy slugs
tucked away between gray stones,
like dead gray toes on the edge of a silver plate.
Assistant morticians drop. Pens on the floor clatter.
Fungus grows between the nails like a holy resurrection.
It is I reborn between my own toes.
tucked away between gray stones,
like dead gray toes on the edge of a silver plate.
Assistant morticians drop. Pens on the floor clatter.
Fungus grows between the nails like a holy resurrection.
It is I reborn between my own toes.
Thursday
Bin Liner
Just as I breathe life, the life breathes out of me.
It sweeps wooden planks built on stone.
Tiny writing desks are full of disorganized papers.
The room is far away and the outdoor light shimmers.
I see my self push the door outside, open.
In real light once again, I top up my phone with pounds.
Communication replete as a waist's band's love's handle.
I leak rubbish juice onto other Marshmallow Peeps in a meadow.
But I just can't seem to get enough. I'm stuffed.
All As, peace of mind, nice pleasantries, charitable work,
Digestives and The Rustic Stuff. I'm quite full.
I'm hungry. I haven't been eating.
Fed digitally but, it was just an illusion of my hubris.
It sweeps wooden planks built on stone.
Tiny writing desks are full of disorganized papers.
The room is far away and the outdoor light shimmers.
I see my self push the door outside, open.
In real light once again, I top up my phone with pounds.
Communication replete as a waist's band's love's handle.
I leak rubbish juice onto other Marshmallow Peeps in a meadow.
But I just can't seem to get enough. I'm stuffed.
All As, peace of mind, nice pleasantries, charitable work,
Digestives and The Rustic Stuff. I'm quite full.
I'm hungry. I haven't been eating.
Fed digitally but, it was just an illusion of my hubris.
Trapper Keeper
The crypt is brim with ancient relics
the crypt-keeper grins, holding edifying totemics.
The atmosphere is dim,
because your cans were left on the bright green grounds.
My keeper has a dim view of clutter.
I didn't read the sign:
"No mistakes please, and we'll get along.
Trust me, you'll hate these spells
I will have to cast on you."
I walked back home on the only roads.
I was calm. All roads lead to Rome.
When in Rome,
my relics were labeled.
The crypt was looted and rooted for food for my own good.
Thank you.
the crypt-keeper grins, holding edifying totemics.
The atmosphere is dim,
because your cans were left on the bright green grounds.
My keeper has a dim view of clutter.
I didn't read the sign:
"No mistakes please, and we'll get along.
Trust me, you'll hate these spells
I will have to cast on you."
I walked back home on the only roads.
I was calm. All roads lead to Rome.
When in Rome,
my relics were labeled.
The crypt was looted and rooted for food for my own good.
Thank you.
Tuesday
MY RED SINK
I woke up down
her blurred butt smooth
but I better stand up now
so I can stay with the car.
No, stop staying tha..
staying WITH that.
Stop staring at me with goat nuclei.
Their election clouds stick on me,
spinning at me with sticks poking out,
their tines tie my hairs into cherry stems,
reddish hairs alighting onto the sink surface. It lit it with a redder hue.
I slip a cherr bomb right down the hatch.
The room's edges tremble, explosive reformation counting down
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0
-1, -2, -3, -4, -5, -6....ahhhh,,,
My shagged rug has felt suspiciously like the feeling of drawing zoo animations,
those purposed to search for the depth of wonders
and to carry the dirt to the surface.
Here's a picture of
my newly sharpened farmhand shovel and I.
There I am, digging into a word count tenderly abandoning the art of the needle
So, No more tattoos,
they won't last as long as my table medicines or my coded face novel might.
May they always mean to keep my google moving
as a miracle should.
Blurry bones appear from the deep yearly rains' floods and lay beside me,
They peer clearly cut out of a mudslide magazine,
slide to sliding, her sidling and oscillating hips,
reanimated, dreaming about brother Poseidon's mud wrestling ring.
"Broseidon!," I said to the sink, waking myself up.
Forever was all that answered and
all that were in there were eerie hairs.
Such eerie folicles waver with eyes on the ends,
arranged like amoebas cultured with red cumin cake as bait.
Around the bathroom's rim, their bloody redrum cilia tickle the porcelain.
You know people say the cilia killed Pilgrims,
I have it someone's honor though that someone skinned em and robbed em BRONZE.
yes, their eyelids fixed like reluctant pool covers closed for the season,
the soft reddish tides come in again, cumin cultured, yet statuesque with time
priming pumps of black to fade the red blood back to blue,
pushing the volume that had pooled into the optics like food.
I'm fixed, I think, I see red--a strong colour like bricks or tape,
I'm kept alive and cultured,
I'm alive, culturally, the pack kept me on my alien feet,
allowed to handle cherry-pitted ladies if I can.
Please keep it up, they say, so I stay with the vehicle.
On the road I drive through some leftover forests, keeping me breathing,
with no slaves around to shuck sugarcane, life is harder than ever.
my pickup though, can find any detour, I think.
that's necessary for survival of the fittest, I thought,
the fittest survive so I work out a lot,
pumping iron is the miracle of "he still lives!"
My teeth are bare in the mirror,
like a lions' stuffed under his golden-red coat shining on the painted savannah.
I watch a mother tending cubs and teaching lies about the afterlife,
"Lion cubs are stupid bastards," I think, "learning about life in a museum."
My mother carries wild cats in her car.
This one cat she has is something like red plastic.
She's blind as mines but strong and proud.
She wears cool black glasses, which perch on her like a pretty pose.
She dreams of endless trees, forever scented on her cellulose nose.
The dirt a forest prefers lies atop many brazen, beaten foes.
And each of the trees leans towards the light, growing green boxy blankets.
She never imagines cuddled sheets such as those,
yours and those cherry-colored underclothes.
The futuristic boabab tree cleans me easily like a needle,
with my clothing off, I sleep naked, awoken now next to her,
awake,
I woke up from the haze again cherried with concern in our red camry.
Sometimes she worries about me..
The ten years' average shaved off of me reminds her that it's real and makes her feel alive,
I feel that I'm real alive, that I'm "real", kept alive.
I'm all about self-improvement and so I'm not in a coma.
My comas remind my friends of life value properly, without maroon cake on their minds,
they're cultured, they drink red rum and coke---
what a miracle!
her blurred butt smooth
but I better stand up now
so I can stay with the car.
No, stop staying tha..
staying WITH that.
Stop staring at me with goat nuclei.
Their election clouds stick on me,
spinning at me with sticks poking out,
their tines tie my hairs into cherry stems,
reddish hairs alighting onto the sink surface. It lit it with a redder hue.
I slip a cherr bomb right down the hatch.
The room's edges tremble, explosive reformation counting down
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
0
-1, -2, -3, -4, -5, -6....ahhhh,,,
My shagged rug has felt suspiciously like the feeling of drawing zoo animations,
those purposed to search for the depth of wonders
and to carry the dirt to the surface.
Here's a picture of
my newly sharpened farmhand shovel and I.
There I am, digging into a word count tenderly abandoning the art of the needle
So, No more tattoos,
they won't last as long as my table medicines or my coded face novel might.
May they always mean to keep my google moving
as a miracle should.
Blurry bones appear from the deep yearly rains' floods and lay beside me,
They peer clearly cut out of a mudslide magazine,
slide to sliding, her sidling and oscillating hips,
reanimated, dreaming about brother Poseidon's mud wrestling ring.
"Broseidon!," I said to the sink, waking myself up.
Forever was all that answered and
all that were in there were eerie hairs.
Such eerie folicles waver with eyes on the ends,
arranged like amoebas cultured with red cumin cake as bait.
Around the bathroom's rim, their bloody redrum cilia tickle the porcelain.
You know people say the cilia killed Pilgrims,
I have it someone's honor though that someone skinned em and robbed em BRONZE.
yes, their eyelids fixed like reluctant pool covers closed for the season,
the soft reddish tides come in again, cumin cultured, yet statuesque with time
priming pumps of black to fade the red blood back to blue,
pushing the volume that had pooled into the optics like food.
I'm fixed, I think, I see red--a strong colour like bricks or tape,
I'm kept alive and cultured,
I'm alive, culturally, the pack kept me on my alien feet,
allowed to handle cherry-pitted ladies if I can.
Please keep it up, they say, so I stay with the vehicle.
On the road I drive through some leftover forests, keeping me breathing,
with no slaves around to shuck sugarcane, life is harder than ever.
my pickup though, can find any detour, I think.
that's necessary for survival of the fittest, I thought,
the fittest survive so I work out a lot,
pumping iron is the miracle of "he still lives!"
My teeth are bare in the mirror,
like a lions' stuffed under his golden-red coat shining on the painted savannah.
I watch a mother tending cubs and teaching lies about the afterlife,
"Lion cubs are stupid bastards," I think, "learning about life in a museum."
My mother carries wild cats in her car.
This one cat she has is something like red plastic.
She's blind as mines but strong and proud.
She wears cool black glasses, which perch on her like a pretty pose.
She dreams of endless trees, forever scented on her cellulose nose.
The dirt a forest prefers lies atop many brazen, beaten foes.
And each of the trees leans towards the light, growing green boxy blankets.
She never imagines cuddled sheets such as those,
yours and those cherry-colored underclothes.
The futuristic boabab tree cleans me easily like a needle,
with my clothing off, I sleep naked, awoken now next to her,
awake,
I woke up from the haze again cherried with concern in our red camry.
Sometimes she worries about me..
The ten years' average shaved off of me reminds her that it's real and makes her feel alive,
I feel that I'm real alive, that I'm "real", kept alive.
I'm all about self-improvement and so I'm not in a coma.
My comas remind my friends of life value properly, without maroon cake on their minds,
they're cultured, they drink red rum and coke---
what a miracle!
Saturday
Today is the day of the Secret Santa scrimmage!
Today is the day of the Secret Santa scrimmage!
I knee-to-chest crouch up field, crotch squeezed too tightly.
But, I forgot to go through puberty. Yup, nearly nightly.
I pick on grass, offense, no yield,
attack, gather presents for the defense.
What up Team B, our presents are two tense to be defended.
"Destroy something beautiful,
and scratch the blood of your victim,"
In the Middle East Field,
the beast claws at the genitals of a beautiful brown penny.
Vicars and victors pour their pickled plums into crankshaft shit gun legs.
Aimed right at my left cleft philtrum, the pellet rifle sprays come.
I lick them off, coughing,
my coffee stained teeth reveal my tongue,
black with oil, packed with vitamins,
soiling
my water, bottle plastic pumped through adamantium.
So many spotlights illuminate bottle caps,
that we don't have to see the tops.
Black light casts dark shades into hidden unmentionables.
Black fuel gargles in the throat of a combustion engine.
I gargle a combustion engine's fuel to intimidate the other team.
The referee doesn't see but he looks over suspiciously.
I charmed some Fearful American boys,
I pierced a piece of periodontal peace with one a those Teeth Hose toys.
Breached with a guttural rumble, their bubbles broke out.
Meanwhile deflated snakes squirmed beneath each waist
low above the dentists' chair.
Chastity is wasted on rotten dental hygiene.
Puberty never reaches men of plates.
It's too late for bass.
White. MAN?
White can stand alone for butter bread bland.
Those who seemingly mean only to carry out old worthless shitty plans
for war against toasts and phantoms
tripping ancient booby-traps in the holy middle lands, are Pus White, yes,
but they're not Men.
I knee-to-chest crouch up field, crotch squeezed too tightly.
But, I forgot to go through puberty. Yup, nearly nightly.
I pick on grass, offense, no yield,
attack, gather presents for the defense.
What up Team B, our presents are two tense to be defended.
"Destroy something beautiful,
and scratch the blood of your victim,"
In the Middle East Field,
the beast claws at the genitals of a beautiful brown penny.
Vicars and victors pour their pickled plums into crankshaft shit gun legs.
Aimed right at my left cleft philtrum, the pellet rifle sprays come.
I lick them off, coughing,
my coffee stained teeth reveal my tongue,
black with oil, packed with vitamins,
soiling
my water, bottle plastic pumped through adamantium.
So many spotlights illuminate bottle caps,
that we don't have to see the tops.
Black light casts dark shades into hidden unmentionables.
Black fuel gargles in the throat of a combustion engine.
I gargle a combustion engine's fuel to intimidate the other team.
The referee doesn't see but he looks over suspiciously.
I charmed some Fearful American boys,
I pierced a piece of periodontal peace with one a those Teeth Hose toys.
Breached with a guttural rumble, their bubbles broke out.
Meanwhile deflated snakes squirmed beneath each waist
low above the dentists' chair.
Chastity is wasted on rotten dental hygiene.
Puberty never reaches men of plates.
It's too late for bass.
White. MAN?
White can stand alone for butter bread bland.
Those who seemingly mean only to carry out old worthless shitty plans
for war against toasts and phantoms
tripping ancient booby-traps in the holy middle lands, are Pus White, yes,
but they're not Men.
Oh, It's Ending Alright (flash 5)
My friend Bebb says we've got 5 billion to go,
NO. SLOWER
Humans are slowing the astrological process.
The sun dresses me in childrens' clothes, overalls.
The moon shines translucently through 'em.
The Society Of the Concrete World Hegemony:
Built of the last bushes.
Hail the Kindling King-Queen!
Each sperm kinged at the other side of the checkerboard,
black and red they all run diagonal,
our new world has but its own blood to live off.
Auto-cannibalism: reuse, recycle, revenge.
I took a cleaver with me and I only use the edge.
My eyes are now glass balls of president nether-meat,
crystallized with plastic kingly crowned rubbish.
You'll find me and your cousin,
hashing a bath in the sink with old vitamin water--
bottled in bottled water bottles, stoppered with towels.
Everyone smells
like kelp-dog vagina sweat on fusty spongiform
leanin' toward the sky like dickweed in the mornin sun.
The parasites have a life of their own, floatin'
their own on top of lives to live, not living on
eels but thriving on steel flesh,
android diseases
licking the herpied mouth of my digital brain cave.
Our paintings return to these hovel's walls,
each bro groveling over philosophical cannibals.
Fine art reads the instructions to the toaster
Simple pastries are chef made.
Pop-Tarts are my food everyday.
NO. SLOWER
Humans are slowing the astrological process.
The sun dresses me in childrens' clothes, overalls.
The moon shines translucently through 'em.
The Society Of the Concrete World Hegemony:
Built of the last bushes.
Hail the Kindling King-Queen!
Each sperm kinged at the other side of the checkerboard,
black and red they all run diagonal,
our new world has but its own blood to live off.
Auto-cannibalism: reuse, recycle, revenge.
I took a cleaver with me and I only use the edge.
My eyes are now glass balls of president nether-meat,
crystallized with plastic kingly crowned rubbish.
You'll find me and your cousin,
hashing a bath in the sink with old vitamin water--
bottled in bottled water bottles, stoppered with towels.
Everyone smells
like kelp-dog vagina sweat on fusty spongiform
leanin' toward the sky like dickweed in the mornin sun.
The parasites have a life of their own, floatin'
their own on top of lives to live, not living on
eels but thriving on steel flesh,
android diseases
licking the herpied mouth of my digital brain cave.
Our paintings return to these hovel's walls,
each bro groveling over philosophical cannibals.
Fine art reads the instructions to the toaster
Simple pastries are chef made.
Pop-Tarts are my food everyday.
Tuesday
Take Human Bites
Two fingers are pressed against my
wrist
pulling down the rope bridge tendon
within
the bleached fish lutefisk, shielded inside a freezedried
tomato
Two fingers are pressed down to check
my pulse.
Patting my chest and
my pockets and
my jacket.
I'm so sadly unattractive.
My hands are damp and too cooled,
sunlit by dungeon flames.
Pulse-checking down on
my skinned wrist,
the dungeon floors are wrought
with ropes and
mud covered.
with lots of
dirt and water, I help build up our empire
back to the skies over civilization, clumpy and lock-wed.
My honorable ambitions fill the wise city's heritage-bins.
My empire needs a sewer system, ceramic tiles blue and white,
butt-brown with sludge.
My empire needs a dishwasher
in order to clean the lipstick off of coffee cups
that would otherwise sit in steamy hospitals next to Nurses,
perched next to cranberry sugar scones.
Hopefully, there'll be a few bites left for me.
wrist
pulling down the rope bridge tendon
within
the bleached fish lutefisk, shielded inside a freezedried
tomato
Two fingers are pressed down to check
my pulse.
Patting my chest and
my pockets and
my jacket.
I'm so sadly unattractive.
My hands are damp and too cooled,
sunlit by dungeon flames.
Pulse-checking down on
my skinned wrist,
the dungeon floors are wrought
with ropes and
mud covered.
with lots of
dirt and water, I help build up our empire
back to the skies over civilization, clumpy and lock-wed.
My honorable ambitions fill the wise city's heritage-bins.
My empire needs a sewer system, ceramic tiles blue and white,
butt-brown with sludge.
My empire needs a dishwasher
in order to clean the lipstick off of coffee cups
that would otherwise sit in steamy hospitals next to Nurses,
perched next to cranberry sugar scones.
Hopefully, there'll be a few bites left for me.
Thursday
instrument symphony
For shore, I believe I tend to drain you
because I don't actually care about the crap that you've been trying to clean off my pocketbook
Really, please, go care about someone else.
I'm putting up a store front and
trying to sell my left-over chap-sticks.
But, listen kid,,,
if you buy me business-drinks you may fare better.
Sperms spreaded by the maidflower pruned by Queen Phillip, the Spanish whore,
listen, I tshell yhio kid,
will shlay my Indyins,
y'may b'ayble to ship some of thayre pure sugarcanes back to the states.
Cage 'em, so my delicate face, reacting to the loud roar
of the deep black pitch I produce f'r ya
'r written in your damn books of truth and fiction uf non fiction discourse...
uf course 'cause th'sourceiss corrupt'd
with facilely interested forced empathy.
because I don't actually care about the crap that you've been trying to clean off my pocketbook
Really, please, go care about someone else.
I'm putting up a store front and
trying to sell my left-over chap-sticks.
But, listen kid,,,
if you buy me business-drinks you may fare better.
Sperms spreaded by the maidflower pruned by Queen Phillip, the Spanish whore,
listen, I tshell yhio kid,
will shlay my Indyins,
y'may b'ayble to ship some of thayre pure sugarcanes back to the states.
Cage 'em, so my delicate face, reacting to the loud roar
of the deep black pitch I produce f'r ya
'r written in your damn books of truth and fiction uf non fiction discourse...
uf course 'cause th'sourceiss corrupt'd
with facilely interested forced empathy.
Saturday
Uganda Avenue
Stop,
pimpin out the medium sized squirts
like televangelists on urinal stalls
their spirits are lampin in the teacher's lounge
the Lord's Army laughs a lot
to keep up their morale
Let me drink your..,
fresh with the joy of newborn adults
their noses crinkle a little
when they step out into the son
upturned smooth as chocolate milk
shimmering faces turned face to face in rows
like cartons on the shelf or heifers put to death
ON YOUR KNEES,
Apocalyptic Christianity has never tasted this good
I think!
The mystics and their Acholies
blend tradition with wheatgrass and hard love
with natural Calvin Crusadism, yumm!
RUN RUN RUN LITTLE PIGGIES,
I like my children to be on the run
to build them into strong men
and women become wives to them
eight what a solid age to grow into
realty, knowing the proper values
property scouters, nomad-der, they live for the rain
smell through their perfect nostrils,
beautiful children, black and proud
BEG FOR YOUR LIFE,
I wish the gods had begged to me
for my expertise
but some of us demi-gods miss out on all the fun,
and we must create our own
what have you?
so few toys to play
you have action figures
eight men of muscle and girth
such power becomes the meek
inherit the desert sands, walled greenery
green greenery rim job desert prison
pimpin out the medium sized squirts
like televangelists on urinal stalls
their spirits are lampin in the teacher's lounge
the Lord's Army laughs a lot
to keep up their morale
Let me drink your..,
fresh with the joy of newborn adults
their noses crinkle a little
when they step out into the son
upturned smooth as chocolate milk
shimmering faces turned face to face in rows
like cartons on the shelf or heifers put to death
ON YOUR KNEES,
Apocalyptic Christianity has never tasted this good
I think!
The mystics and their Acholies
blend tradition with wheatgrass and hard love
with natural Calvin Crusadism, yumm!
RUN RUN RUN LITTLE PIGGIES,
I like my children to be on the run
to build them into strong men
and women become wives to them
eight what a solid age to grow into
realty, knowing the proper values
property scouters, nomad-der, they live for the rain
smell through their perfect nostrils,
beautiful children, black and proud
BEG FOR YOUR LIFE,
I wish the gods had begged to me
for my expertise
but some of us demi-gods miss out on all the fun,
and we must create our own
what have you?
so few toys to play
you have action figures
eight men of muscle and girth
such power becomes the meek
inherit the desert sands, walled greenery
green greenery rim job desert prison
Sunday
I read a story about a lamb that was seduced by a woman.
She offered to cut the lamb's forest down for him so that he could sell it to the architects of the nearest arc. Everyday she came to him and worked tirelessly. He fed her pieces of his body in exchange. This hurt him, but he knew that if they kept it up, he'd be the prime wood contractor within 100 miles for any new construction project.
But everyday, the lamb's body became more meager. His muscles started to peer through his matted wool. He smelled like mouldy laundry capping an orangey bacterial hot-spring well. His fur began to feel like thin extruded sandpaper and his eyes developed sperm-yellow cataracts. The woman ignored his condition and continued to accept payments. She never spoke a word to him other than what was necessary. The arc-men were pretty happy with him but were upset that he scared their children whenever he arrived, dripping and hobbling, with their shipments.
A year later, the arc was completed. It held the essence of lamb-grease and the lacquer of leechy assistance. The sheep bled a few more drops of sugar onto the paint-bronzed pallet of grass beneath the arc, and keeled over, dead from sheepishness.
The arc-team stopped working for a moment. A surly supervisor dripped some poison into a sturdy worker's communication notebook. The man heaved the lamb's corpse into the mixing truck. THUANG. The lamb lived forever beneath the honorary arc-celebration brick on the front of the hull. The bitch contractor inherited his woodland empire and never remembered her guilty dreams.
But everyday, the lamb's body became more meager. His muscles started to peer through his matted wool. He smelled like mouldy laundry capping an orangey bacterial hot-spring well. His fur began to feel like thin extruded sandpaper and his eyes developed sperm-yellow cataracts. The woman ignored his condition and continued to accept payments. She never spoke a word to him other than what was necessary. The arc-men were pretty happy with him but were upset that he scared their children whenever he arrived, dripping and hobbling, with their shipments.
A year later, the arc was completed. It held the essence of lamb-grease and the lacquer of leechy assistance. The sheep bled a few more drops of sugar onto the paint-bronzed pallet of grass beneath the arc, and keeled over, dead from sheepishness.
The arc-team stopped working for a moment. A surly supervisor dripped some poison into a sturdy worker's communication notebook. The man heaved the lamb's corpse into the mixing truck. THUANG. The lamb lived forever beneath the honorary arc-celebration brick on the front of the hull. The bitch contractor inherited his woodland empire and never remembered her guilty dreams.
I will have seen a sapling shoot up like my kids were shot down. I was strapped to a shrewd old plank of wood so they never stained the canopy...
Now I see how this little forest grew from a grove and got cut up Alive.
At Five, Forest, petrify!
Multiple trees entwine when I don't request it.
But to make the best of it I'm all like, "wow! thank you!"
Now I see how this little forest grew from a grove and got cut up Alive.
At Five, Forest, petrify!
Multiple trees entwine when I don't request it.
But to make the best of it I'm all like, "wow! thank you!"
Wednesday
I listen-hear hear!
Perfumed petal arrangements shudder over heads and
like paddle-boats paddled in sewage ditches,
the future here is human powered.
Invest in super-efficient agriculture now.
The Germans slam on my walls of glass impatiently like someone should be there
they never yell nicely
to their plants it's a different story
Perfumed petal arrangements shudder over heads and
like paddle-boats paddled in sewage ditches,
the future here is human powered.
Invest in super-efficient agriculture now.
The Germans slam on my walls of glass impatiently like someone should be there
they never yell nicely
to their plants it's a different story
Monday
The Sameland Split ( the story of sweden's sweat-birth )
Before the Man fucked mankind,
the Lords and their Leige,
a big dumb air balloon,
FUCKIN' POPPED
with an explosion of liquid.
There were some people in Samelands-
when the Flood,
(which people framed with plastic frames)
felt it was full,
two lads and a lass were left,
up upon a half-of-a-hill.
Everyone's heard half-of-a-hill is holy.
We read this in the Holy-Moly Bible.
A document which, at one time,
looked like a soggy cracker floating on a Flood,
and now is...
a pretty nice thing to keep in hotel-drawers.
When the hill became, happily,
not an island,
"I landed on solid ground!" shouted the lads,
literally simultaneously.
Bedraggled, the lass echoed the lads
like a sad walrus in a glass room.
They were all truly tired of each others bull.
Shit, well, who could blame 'em?--
searching for more stimulating or salty situations,
each had donned a shiny red toga,
made of glitter and spanky-style sparklies.
They became scarce...
Three damn years later,
it really seemed like
they seemed to be
seemingly
the only ones around,
all the way towards the beaches' seams.
The little miss became duplicitous
after so long, the sad walrus
had found one handsome litigator
to litigate the lads, still not men,
for their lusty post-Flood appetites.
Half their bastards started living
under chairs, tables + desks
the other half started living
over lands, under skies, over passes
And as you may know, most humans are inbred,
this is why. But don't worry,
now you know the past
and aren't doomed
to repeat it,
unless you repeat it.
the Lords and their Leige,
a big dumb air balloon,
FUCKIN' POPPED
with an explosion of liquid.
There were some people in Samelands-
when the Flood,
(which people framed with plastic frames)
felt it was full,
two lads and a lass were left,
up upon a half-of-a-hill.
Everyone's heard half-of-a-hill is holy.
We read this in the Holy-Moly Bible.
A document which, at one time,
looked like a soggy cracker floating on a Flood,
and now is...
a pretty nice thing to keep in hotel-drawers.
When the hill became, happily,
not an island,
"I landed on solid ground!" shouted the lads,
literally simultaneously.
Bedraggled, the lass echoed the lads
like a sad walrus in a glass room.
They were all truly tired of each others bull.
Shit, well, who could blame 'em?--
searching for more stimulating or salty situations,
each had donned a shiny red toga,
made of glitter and spanky-style sparklies.
They became scarce...
Three damn years later,
it really seemed like
they seemed to be
seemingly
the only ones around,
all the way towards the beaches' seams.
The little miss became duplicitous
after so long, the sad walrus
had found one handsome litigator
to litigate the lads, still not men,
for their lusty post-Flood appetites.
Half their bastards started living
under chairs, tables + desks
the other half started living
over lands, under skies, over passes
And as you may know, most humans are inbred,
this is why. But don't worry,
now you know the past
and aren't doomed
to repeat it,
unless you repeat it.
Thursday
start with what you know
cotton, computers, computations, cats, Cids
and Reagents.
games, idolatry, pens, learned scholars,
depression, anxiety, insecurity
the break down of a man's pride um and the
revival of those old ways.
travel?
the car the sundial boundless ENJOYments of friendship
pools trips to allies
the rhythm of the sheets,
watching struggle, boostin' feet
Some supernal failures:
>libraries to read kiss littered cartons
>films to absorb disinterested falcons
>beautiful people and situations full of yellowy lamp light and boo! and off-the-mark meanings
Crippled by the fears of a world that's already
safe, it's so much to remember for those crystallized by privileges.
this smoky skeezy scatalogical soul giver,
TANKING your soul and giving you a new one.
maybe... if the God wanted me never to understand completely,
even the best gifts.
archeological finds come with the toll of lives and
why should such kerned + tracked, light and giving thoughts
come with the price tag of ignorance and such gravitational duty?
who gave them the right to sell their books?
asking an exchange for the echo in the perfect room,
finds and details
swaying lanterns and campfire stories
and love and sensitivity and perspective
they are for nothing if they can only be obtained by a few
what is humanity if it isn't
one big body
[[things to change/consider...
what COULD you know?
selfish critique? us v. them...over and over again
more work between archaeology, tracking + kerning
arch-discovering/unearthing the past
trac-pursuing things by the trail they leave behind. relationship between all things in typography...one big body...also textual
kern-relationship between two specific things]]
and Reagents.
games, idolatry, pens, learned scholars,
depression, anxiety, insecurity
the break down of a man's pride um and the
revival of those old ways.
travel?
the car the sundial boundless ENJOYments of friendship
pools trips to allies
the rhythm of the sheets,
watching struggle, boostin' feet
Some supernal failures:
>libraries to read kiss littered cartons
>films to absorb disinterested falcons
>beautiful people and situations full of yellowy lamp light and boo! and off-the-mark meanings
Crippled by the fears of a world that's already
safe, it's so much to remember for those crystallized by privileges.
this smoky skeezy scatalogical soul giver,
TANKING your soul and giving you a new one.
maybe... if the God wanted me never to understand completely,
even the best gifts.
archeological finds come with the toll of lives and
why should such kerned + tracked, light and giving thoughts
come with the price tag of ignorance and such gravitational duty?
who gave them the right to sell their books?
asking an exchange for the echo in the perfect room,
finds and details
swaying lanterns and campfire stories
and love and sensitivity and perspective
they are for nothing if they can only be obtained by a few
what is humanity if it isn't
one big body
[[things to change/consider...
what COULD you know?
selfish critique? us v. them...over and over again
more work between archaeology, tracking + kerning
arch-discovering/unearthing the past
trac-pursuing things by the trail they leave behind. relationship between all things in typography...one big body...also textual
kern-relationship between two specific things]]
Monday
'friends, only van morrison can help you'
they're headed for quite a cotillion,
like some contrived moondance.
Like Van Morrison ate a puffin,
and stuck his hands down his pants-- *SWOOP!* --
pulling out a pale diamond. Its scintillating
yellow glow now promises your convalescence!
Hey, you, veiled convalescence!
Hey! You gotta plan yr cotillion.
Hey..must you be so scintillating?
Yes a strained phony moondance:
a type-A mental-medical swoop.
Risk it?... Would not even a puffin?
Why not?? Teach her--to breathe out, and puff in,
take it out: the trash made by yr co-convalescence.
It makes sense. "ahh! Wait! IT'S...AHH," ...*SWOOP!*...*SWOOP!*
"There's some Pendulum there in that cotillion!"
Don't be so sensitive, dancers, my moondancers,
you'll find some answers. BE scintillating
AND understanding. Raise those scintillating
eyes up to each other's, like cute puffins.
Please, admit yr weaknesses and accept 'em by dancing moondances.
They MAY fear convalescence...
but scoop these with cotillion thrills--
those frills of understanding, like filled and painted swoops.
At first i thought, 'let it fell a swoop,'
and 'people like pain, it's scintillating.'
'orderly gardens will still be stamped by cotillions
or shat on by clouds of puffins.'
These ever can convalesce:
similarly, such is the moon dance.
It's a marvelous night for a moondance,
so can't you take one more moony swoop?
With all things considered--convalescence
will soon make it lit. Because its scintillating
sweeps convalesce and codify,,, like puffin'
convalescence into yr cotillion, and
co-tellin' moondancers, "Watch the other's stony feet.
The OTHER delicate puffin swoop," it says to you,
"Convalesce these scintillating bits TRUSTINGLY... honestly... ABOLISH DECEIT."
*published in Statler & Waldorf magazine! (RPI's literary journal)*
like some contrived moondance.
Like Van Morrison ate a puffin,
and stuck his hands down his pants-- *SWOOP!* --
pulling out a pale diamond. Its scintillating
yellow glow now promises your convalescence!
Hey, you, veiled convalescence!
Hey! You gotta plan yr cotillion.
Hey..must you be so scintillating?
Yes a strained phony moondance:
a type-A mental-medical swoop.
Risk it?... Would not even a puffin?
Why not?? Teach her--to breathe out, and puff in,
take it out: the trash made by yr co-convalescence.
It makes sense. "ahh! Wait! IT'S...AHH," ...*SWOOP!*...*SWOOP!*
"There's some Pendulum there in that cotillion!"
Don't be so sensitive, dancers, my moondancers,
you'll find some answers. BE scintillating
AND understanding. Raise those scintillating
eyes up to each other's, like cute puffins.
Please, admit yr weaknesses and accept 'em by dancing moondances.
They MAY fear convalescence...
but scoop these with cotillion thrills--
those frills of understanding, like filled and painted swoops.
At first i thought, 'let it fell a swoop,'
and 'people like pain, it's scintillating.'
'orderly gardens will still be stamped by cotillions
or shat on by clouds of puffins.'
These ever can convalesce:
similarly, such is the moon dance.
It's a marvelous night for a moondance,
so can't you take one more moony swoop?
With all things considered--convalescence
will soon make it lit. Because its scintillating
sweeps convalesce and codify,,, like puffin'
convalescence into yr cotillion, and
co-tellin' moondancers, "Watch the other's stony feet.
The OTHER delicate puffin swoop," it says to you,
"Convalesce these scintillating bits TRUSTINGLY... honestly... ABOLISH DECEIT."
*published in Statler & Waldorf magazine! (RPI's literary journal)*
we do what we do
I know this guy with a mealworm for an eye—
like people that know each other
well,
I raped him in the anus
until he cried.
His tears didn’t turn me on,
but I thought we
had a lot in common
I asked him
afterward, ” can
you spare a dollar?”
I thought he’d be
cool with it. After all
we’d gotten to be so close
like people that know each other
well,
I raped him in the anus
until he cried.
His tears didn’t turn me on,
but I thought we
had a lot in common
I asked him
afterward, ” can
you spare a dollar?”
I thought he’d be
cool with it. After all
we’d gotten to be so close
the boats are people
clocks work like dead dolls, wiping the sanity you find usually intact.
I’m always surprised at the hour mark, moved by my movements, procured from curious impulses.
Zombie-like and freed from carnal desires, the fear of a lost battery or a grid-malfunction ends the thought to quest around, searching for lively dolls to litter my room.
UnFortunately, the Mickey Mouse Garfield Felix Bell Ringing bullshit charades build the walls with its very very own concrete mortar.
The mix—dead bodies and their precious sinewy tendons, dead lives burning with rage at the broken heaters, crushed up cheese-its and cobwebby dust. If it all works out as planned I’ll ride my body-boat back to its origin.
And, later admitting defeat, carried away with syphillycho—my nose flesh sloughing off periodically—
I’ll scream to any nearby periodical owner,
”THE WALLS ARE PEOPLE!”
you would not believe livin’ on the earth planet.
I’m always surprised at the hour mark, moved by my movements, procured from curious impulses.
Zombie-like and freed from carnal desires, the fear of a lost battery or a grid-malfunction ends the thought to quest around, searching for lively dolls to litter my room.
UnFortunately, the Mickey Mouse Garfield Felix Bell Ringing bullshit charades build the walls with its very very own concrete mortar.
The mix—dead bodies and their precious sinewy tendons, dead lives burning with rage at the broken heaters, crushed up cheese-its and cobwebby dust. If it all works out as planned I’ll ride my body-boat back to its origin.
And, later admitting defeat, carried away with syphillycho—my nose flesh sloughing off periodically—
I’ll scream to any nearby periodical owner,
”THE WALLS ARE PEOPLE!”
you would not believe livin’ on the earth planet.
Look Out For Lightning!
empyrean novelties gleam my globes
glare glances off ships I see
out there
the birds are eaten up
by our massive sky-sails, so they
mix their DNA with arrows and stick into the hull
(but only the wooden parts)
we call them seaglass
like that famous guitarist over back
where the sea blows the hairs of hotties
and windmills are the only connection to our sky demons
gods exist up here in our minds, well,
not in our minds,
we're him, he's Us
and god's tellin' Us,
"Look Out for Lightning, Little Playa!"
glare glances off ships I see
out there
the birds are eaten up
by our massive sky-sails, so they
mix their DNA with arrows and stick into the hull
(but only the wooden parts)
we call them seaglass
like that famous guitarist over back
where the sea blows the hairs of hotties
and windmills are the only connection to our sky demons
gods exist up here in our minds, well,
not in our minds,
we're him, he's Us
and god's tellin' Us,
"Look Out for Lightning, Little Playa!"
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