Billy Bob Will Bob Joe Bob
Read "Hands that want to..." first. The order is irrelevant otherwise.
Searching for love in vain is daunting.
Haunting, I saunter over to you my flower, my blossom.
Lost in your eye, I retract my all, NOT some...
A friend is still a warm gun....
But hold on hun!
What about your mom?
or your dad?
Or your uncle?
Or women that you share bunks with? Maybe buckle DOWN with?
Is it worth it? I assume not either way, but perhaps.........
I'm so tired... and I could just sleep.
My body lies in a heap, and I prepare to meet my maker.
But I guess today ain't th' day. Cos today I'ma play Zelda: The Wind Waker.
I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky.
It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence.
I contemplate all our lives:
The gnat licking sweat of my brow,
That tree across the street,
Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara).
The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me.
I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water suspended in midair, and the sun goes down.
I kill the gnat and go home.
We are all guided by a single sentient machine.
Twinkling below me is evidence of its life:
The familiar red-yellow blinking of a yield signal reveals to me its heartbeat.
Almost like Morse code It tells me:
"Twinkle, Twinkle little man,
I touched the sky, think you can?"
My magic comes from the tip of my shaft
With it I gain all my strength.
Pearly puffs paint the air with my potency.
I'd patronus all over your chest and/or back.
Oh how I’ve known this world of decay and tedium:
A burnt world, peppered with the despair of human need.
If only the withered trees may have the grace to accept our mistakes, The splendor of springtime may emerge from this bitter, toxic winter.
But alas, after every blissful summer, and every majestic fall, a dead winter returns.
...Such is the nature of mankind
The lighter wont stop
Telling me to hang myself....
I feel like dying.
A lonesome trumpet tells a tragic tale,
(One might say a tragedy)
That echoes the emptiness of teeming streets.
From the orange-blue skies, to the red rooftops of Madrid, I hear a cacophony of voices
Telling me to eat, pray and kill
God is still crying.
And as rain grinds the streets into dust,
I only wish to see the sun.
incandescent pleasantries, and gabardine melodies are painted across a nighttime sky.
The heavens whisper to my ear "I need more children. I eat their fear. So FEED ME!"
The voices wont stop, and I don't know why.
Telephone wires yell at me,
Streetlights buzz with hostility,
and the gods:
they keep telling me to kill.
KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL
anger pie ingredients:
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes and frozen
4 tablespoons vegetable shortening, in small pieces, frozen
8 tablespoons very cold cream cheese, in small pieces
1/3 cup ice-cold water
3 skinned kittens (preferably still kind of alive)
1 cup dead Armenian tears
1/4 cup potato starch
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
1 tablespoon butter, in small pieces
1 seven year old, lightly beaten
1 1/2 tablespoons sugar
2. Stare at the until the scorn bursts them into flames
3. Force feed it to a dying cancer patient
you are such a jew
you a such a jew jew jew
you are such a jew
There once was a man from kentucky
who dreampt he was quite lucky
then he got hit by a truck and contracted polio
Incessant insolent innocence lies broken by a bedside.
Am i taking psychoactive substances, or am i substantially psychoactive?
Puzzling proportions of a mirror lie shattered by my knees.
Am i broken?
We just want to fix you.
Are you broken?
I just want to feel free.
Feline feminity made masculine by hands that want to...
Curved carvings chisled on your face,
led me to a flower
That I caress, you touch
we say so much,
(but without a word)
for your body gives it away.
When they fly
(I wonder what they dream...)
Do we die
(After we clear the Stream?)
Love for them, when they love not the need...
Walls melting, oh why cant she be free?
Deep crimson cotton races against the infinite canvas of purple ink.
Crystal white spots the subject:
a peephole for all to see.
a vision; postponed
a dream; deterred
a painted glass,
meant for all to see, but no one to see through
Flying, eight tall, beautiful spires ascend towards the sky
onto a thin silk wire of silver and white.
Lovely it rises so high.
Why must we kill the spider to save the butterfly?
to keep that sacred silence?
to savor your favored violence?
The floating bird touches the golden beach.
A medicine man welcomes them with open arms,
but from the belly of the beast comes a leech
with butterfly wings
I found peace under a willow tree,
A state of mind only for the tree and me to be:
Our sweet noisy silence of serenity.
The shadow of a wing covers me
A blanket to answer my call
And surrounding us all
Yes, its true I found peace under a willow tree
The sweet silent noise of our totality
You can be there too,
DON’T LET THE ROBOTS WIN
The red sun gazes upon a blue moon’s reveries
While the baker glazes over our doughnuts memories
5-9 TV talks of talcum dreams,
Fascist fornication with communist candy
Tastes kinda like Yankee doodle dandy
I whisper over the roar of a glazed man grazing,
Dazed, and drowned,
to the Automated telenation:
“Don’t use self checkout lines,
Don’t let the robots win!”