It was always going to be black and white
that's the typeface on my preference of late
defining day and night with your choice of tights
those fine dividing lines on your partnered limbs
wrapped tall in belts daring as a Lara Croft climb
a silky striped raggedy ann gone neat sensuous
tight strapped to a two striking sinuous princess
committed to lodge sins inside my Loveland challenge
hemmed in round towers together to never-never unhinge

at home we horse around and rub along together
boosted by the interplay between cotton twill gathered
pulled low one side then canter balance riding high
as you level up to a line up of outbound thigh
saddled with a lovely leg stirrup over here
and a lean waist wobble to match up there
eyebrow lifts to starch arrowroot attention
over the swings and sway of every action
so swift I play catch-up each morning
delayed by fumbling for ones gone matching
it's a wonder you don't just wander away
in a daze from my one legged hopping display

then I would travel far as a bee
long-legged as stilts could be
to sing to your nails and feet
and be spun free flaunting
our google
a red white and blue
pair of giggles unfurled like flags
in your slim line dancers' legs
dangling ideas like fair weather socks
to goggle one direction behind your back
unique like nobody else contains within
thin licked then rolled back ciggie skins
so I pinch holes in the bacci parts
sinking into slats like leaky wooden boats
your avoiding tiptoes gadfly and curl in return
my feet undoing knits with swats and swirls
toeing tinkling notes like piano keys
undertones pink tinged with tingling knees
and when a jukebox plays
my coins are there always
for I've got your pop socks in motion
your vox populi's united under my skin
with impressive pulled tight bands
embedding imprint elastic rings
inky red slinking down
leaving parallel links


ignore my pins and needles
alone in dead of night
longing for your leggings
luminous stripe tights
today it's all me put on the spot
today it's music you might hate
biographies of people you don't like
subtitled movies too deep to bother
blue jeans dull dyed against your garter belt
a one man team can't DIY a drill majorette
spiralling shafts that come to a threaded point
enthralling with alternating knee bend bit pants
so pretty poly soft I'm pulled up like a fool
fully mixed up by your weaving cotton wool
wave me down in your way of sweet patter feet
a patterned cakewalk for you to catwalk sock it
to me in a stand in posey kind of way
this way to stand outs knitted to fancy
uncross your legs and cross-stitch
my path with gaited kisses
closely

sitting in your corvette
bass boosted songs
and friday sunlight reflecting
off crisp puddles from yesterday
you hit the gas
and my hair goes straight
to the roof
feels like i’m trapped in
a fish bowl, sports cars
easy to get in
but impossible to get out
maybe that’s your plan

1.) tizzop introduced gangsta poetry february 2021
     no man ever before created a poetry genre alike
     gangsta poetry, robust melting *** of languages
     and ethnicities, as it reflects the united states

2.) the idols of gangsta poetry are rooted in the
      underworld, blacks, hispanics, italo- and irish-
      americans, asians, arabs, germans, kurds,
      yugos, albanians, afghans, northern-africans...

3.) multilingual are the core, heart and soul of
     a gangsta poem: glockz, rubix cubies, 31er
     salam, jebeš igru, habibis, brüder, fo' sho':
     rapid months, frozen silverfruit, whole ones

4.) every letter of gangsta poetry becomes the
     side effects of our brand's real-life greed and fury
      mourning the end of beloved baby mommas
      deaths caused by strayed bullets that vamoose

5.) gangsta poetry aims to be published among
      all ethnic communities of the 50 united states
      deadline 08/16/21 stresses american willpower
      gangsta poetry scandalously hits us's curriculas

6.) each of the 194 remaining countries is urged
     to promote and govern gangsta poetry for
     the neglected, weighted with glacial contempt
     these males and females discover their kind in us

7.) tizzop established a saying: "treat every being  
     with an open mind, but fight back, baby, if anyone
     disrespects you, the gps, or our hangarounds"
     at war, we remember our families before we blast

8.) bar none, each gangsta poet is free to connect
      affiliate and distribute with and for the gp's
      brothas and sistas -- gps create examples of
      social diversity and historical dimensions

9.) female gangsta poets are a quarter of us
      some keep it gal, united sisterhood, astute flow
      in memory of leery leyla, chalondra, kateyy,
      mountainbird, ivanka cociç, ashima abraham

10.) genderfree, gangsta poets are chosen
        undertakings composed by thugs & artists
        the spirit of a few meets strife of hood speech
        gp evolved from a movement to an own identity

11.) restrictions do not apply for written creation
        strategic outgrowth and unshaken cash flow
        gp embraces brainy ones, and our soldiers
        narrators in conspiracy, art nouveau trips

12.) gangsta poetry admires the following people:
        jeezy, killa cam, toni der assi, iron sal, dmx
        anton chigurh, sigmund freud, rashid stoogie
        larry hoover, elliot york hp, kevin of allpoetry

13.) taktloss, luis fonsi, blockmonsta, all bolivian
        and peruvian farmers, te amamos, our brothers
        187 strassenbande, senion mogilevich, nirvana
        john murphy, dem dudes alpha hotel frankfurt

14.) much love to all global units, poets, thieves
        traffic architects, hackers, true skippos
        german bakeries, all-black betting shops
        jews from brighton beach, hispanic halos

15.) benny da bandit, tony tarantula, gambino, brate
        hamza al-mighty, fat **** frank, jens, das brain
        fred merciless, familia escorpio, ruben and levi
        ali firefists, kimbo slice, scarface, oleksiy, dejan

16.) daim, loomit, dns 1up, **** my **** crew
        berlin kreuzberg 36ers, playboys hannover
        yard bird 1955, taki 183 n.y.c., basquiat, level
        dbl ffm-skychildren, bomber, city mission
    
17.) gangsta poetry overwhelmingly shaped by
       our ancestors who boosted the poetry of ages
       train bombers, rappers, trappers, taggers, cutters
       we descent from them, honor their names

18.) gangsta poets die for poems that struck
        gps, fans and critics in a possessive way
        limits of real talk and boasting are in flux
        trance batters the face of reason, at dusk


                                          *


Once upon a time at March 22nd, 2021
Kreuzberg SO 36, Berlin, Germany...
Dedicated to all Gangsta Poets Worldwide

Heaven and hell yeah, disciples outpace seconds
Greetings from Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic City

When your self esteem gets boosted
A healthy beer has been brewed
A perfect sowing has been sewed
I'm getting butterflies when I used to get moths
Feeling a little less goth

A question that should be on
Your mind this evening is why?
Why are the people of Greece--
Why is the nation of Greece--getting
Spanked & punished by their EU
German & French economic overlords?
We should be saluting tonight’s
Referendum NO vote results,
The Greek electorate voting against another
Devastating round of economic sanctions,
Voting NO on more years of austere living.
In fact, it should be U.S. foreign policy to
Support complete Greek withdrawal from
The European Union. That’s right:
“Euro No, Drachma naí!”
The EU is fiscal tyranny,
Led by the EU autocrats,
Angela Merkel & whomever is sitting in the
French baby high chair these days.
Isn’t it a strange coincidence that the
EU whip, always seems to be cracking on
Their swarthier brethren,
Their southern European members,
The Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians &,
The Greeks.
The Greeks have had enough.
One would expect nothing less from
These fiercely independent
Hellenistic people.
And you can **** the Greek people
Up their ***** all you want &
Many of them might like it, but
The Greeks will survive,
Survive as they have for nearly 3,000 years,
Give or take a Kalamata olive or two.
We breathe the air of Greek culture,
Deep respiration of so much of
What we still call learning these days.
We owe the Greeks: it was
Greek inception of so much
Math & science &
Countless other right-brain
Spatial ability & logical precision; not to
Mention so many left-brain contributions in
Sociology & ethics,
Politics & democratic government,
Geography & religion,
Education & philosophy,
Sculpture & art, philosophy,
Live theater & literature.
We owe the Greeks.
Had we interceded with the Brits on Greece’s behalf,
Reminding them that we bailed out their sorry ***-cheeks
After two 20th Century world wars, perhaps
The British Museum might have Fedexed
The so-called Elgin Marbles--
Those boosted friezes,
Jacked right off the
Parthenon façade,
Should have Fedexed them back to
"Eleftherios Venizelos,"
Decades ago.
George’s wife, that foxy babe
Amal Clooney sure thinks so.
We owe the Greeks.
The world owes the Greeks.
Let us all help the Greeks.
Let’s encourage them to quit the EU.
To Greeks I say: trust & patience,
You’ve got the sun.
You’ve got the sea.
A clean white landscape,
Ouzo & Retsina,
Spanakopita & Moussaka.
The Greek Islands:
Crete & Mykonos,
Santorini & Corfu,
Rhodes & Ios
Samos & ****** . . .
We owe you.
We love you.
We will come to you.

There's a feeling I've felt hindering on the tip of my tongue, twirling with sawdust at the end of my bed. Its tingled my toes and tickled my nose and killed all hopes that this is just happiness.

Sleep is for figments and products of sanity, neither of which I can claim heritage. Well perhaps figments in the waking hours of the darkness, but that is a tale for another time.

I can feel his fingertips stroking my sides, reminding me what it is to feel human and vulnerable and perfect. Didn't know he boosted me ego and turned me into the self absorbed maniac you see before you today. Tyrant, remembrr? Oh wait, that's another tale altogether again.

I ramble in the night, in the morning, all the time. My thoughts wander with echoing clarity to encompass the truth about me; not everything is quite right. The teacups are lopsided at the unbirthday table tonight.

Yet again, speaking in riddles and stories unbeknownst to you. Stupid me, stupid Grace, stupider you. Why are you so open to my madness anyway? Maybe you're the crazy one.

This sick godlike embodiment I feel is one I forget isn't real, isn't me, isn't life. But wait. Its a part of me, so perhaps it is real as well? Call a jury, wake a judge, there must be a verdict on my elation. Am I a minor deity or are the synapses playing some cruel joke on my heartstrings?

Heartstrings, why did I bring them into this? I have shut them off for now, for they are dumb and deaf to honesty and logic and do whatever the hell they feel. Or is it whatever the heaven? I forget sometimes where the real misery is, or how the expression goes. I've never quite gotten everything right, being as upside down as I.

Insomnia brings out the manic in me, and I know its not real, but for a moment, just a moment, I belong. I am real, I am loved, I am powerful. Weak little Grace is no more, with her fears and contradictions. Just strength is left, and it is glorious.

Just remember not to let the heffelumps get you in the night, for they are the true evil behind your honey ***. Or am I a heffelump? I can't remember anymore.

This is going nowhere, everywhere, somewhere.

Wake me up inside before I destroy myself, or simply perpetuate my perfection with a caress of your hand. Whatever suits your fancy.

Call me Aphrodite and we'll call it a night after hours of mindblowing ***. But you expected that all along, of course you did, because you know my bones better than we both realize.

When you put your hands on me I feel ****. But yet again, right now I an perpetually **** and twitchy and awake and fake. Dare you to kiss me anyway.

Dare you to see me, psychotics and all.

Bet you'll run like the rest, yet like all good hiders its refreshing to be found every once in awhile.

Find me, and see. See the monster behind my beautiful eyes. That's the day when you'll see what true danger looks like; me.

Insomnia makes me odd, but yet again I'm always odd.

Little miss muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and craves, for a man betwixt her to tell her she's killer and make her a siren next day.

Forget, no, yes, its all I do. Its not how that goes, for sirens are certainly not temporary. I am certainly a black widow every day, not just each odd thursday.

Go to bed, Grace. I beg of you.

Close my eyes and say goodnight to the beloved moon, for the sun is nearly up and it certainly hates me, I am sure of it.

Just never forget all this is wrapped up in one little old me. No one seems to remember that until its far too late, so might as well run now, because otherwise little miss muffet here on her tuffet will be the death of you.

Lancaster bore him—such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near.
They meet him in the general store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable mail,
Rifling a printed letter as he talks.
They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat,
If not at heart, at least on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed another train
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel.

“You say ‘unless.’”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind
Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you understand.”
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

“He was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”

“I’ll have to have a bed.”

The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage full of doors,
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”

“Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.”

The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went.

“Lafe was the name, I think?”

“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time. And yours?”

“Magoon.

Doctor Magoon.”

“A Doctor?”

“Well, a teacher.”

“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask the first
Man that knew anything I happened in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.”

The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

The Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”

“Fourteen! You say so!
I can remember when I wore fourteen.
And come to think I must have back at home
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer than where **** left you.
You act as if you wished you hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.”

The Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And propped himself at bay against a pillow.

“Not that way, with your shoes on ****’s white bed.
You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.”

“Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.”

“Just as you say. Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however,
I’m thinking I have more to lose than you
If anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down as an evidence
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not afraid.”

“I‘m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s all I carry.”

“I can search you?
Where are you moving over to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your money under you
And sleep on it the way I always do
When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.”

“Will you believe me if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?”

“You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a time
All round the country for the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?”

“Known it since I was young.”

“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something for it at the front.
My business is to find what people want:
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he says.
A good deal comes on me when all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says,
‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”

“You seem to shape the paper’s policy.”

“You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms as well as they do.”

“You drive around? It must be pleasant work.”

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working near the house.
Later they get out further in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn;
The family’s all away in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.
And later still they all get driven in:
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins
Only when someone’s coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns in at every house
As if she had some sort of curvature,
No matter if I have no errand there.
She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“One would suppose they might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see them.”

“Oh,
Because I want their dollar. I don’t want
Anything they’ve not got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”

“No, no, no, thank you.”

“Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.”

“I don’t know who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”

He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

It’s Sunday morning, 7am. My phone jiggles and a Doja-cat ringtone jars me awake. It’s Kim asking if we want to set out for some frisbee golf - you have to tee-off early on the weekend to avoid the rush. “No, I moan, not today” I say, licking my emery-paper dry lips and trying to focus my eyes on the giant LED numbers of my alarm clock, “Leong and I got shot,” I add for maximum dramatic effect.

Later, about 11am. I’m lead-ball tired and so is Leong. My arm hurts so bad I can hardly lift it. Leong says hers does too. We’re kind of binging “Riverdale” but, in reality, we’re curled up, blanketed, and surrounded by pillows on the living-room sectional couch, napping off and on.

It’s slightly odd, being at home again with my mom, who used to manage everything about me. She knew when I should go to bed and get up, what vegetables and fruit I ate. She knew my teachers, who my friends were, when I had homework due, or needed a dental cleaning, when I had a doctor's appointment (although she really was my doctor), how I was feeling, if I had my period, when I took a bath, when my sheets needed changing - everything.

Now my mom has her brakes on - I can see her sometimes, flexing to comment on something, like our plan to go to the pool party the other night at 11pm, but stopping herself.

I guess I’m a different (university sophomore) me and she’s a different (more hands off) her.

Leong’s very Chinese-respectful around my parents. She calls my mom “mamma” and Step (my stepfather) “baba“ and practically comes to attention whenever they address her.
They’re just parents,” I say, denigratingly, “relax.” She nods, she’s trying.

Early yesterday (Saturday) morning, Leong and I were in the kitchen, at a round table, deep in our kitchen bay-window area, where we’re surrounded by plants and hanging ferns. My mom was making us a pancake and bacon breakfast (yum!), which was lovely, in theory, but Leong and I were badly maimed (hung over) - which I’m willing to bet she guessed. The night before we went to a high school graduation throwdown.

“Do you girls have plans for tomorrow?” My mom asked, as she transferred several pancakes from a frying pan onto a baking sheet in the oven.
“Nothing in particular, why?” I replied, as I looked up to eye-drop my seemingly sandy eyes.
“You’re going overseas in less than two weeks and I’d like to have you two covid boosted before then. You might feel tired or sore the next day,” she said, as she flipped her latest set of four pancakes in the frying pan, “so getting them today would be ideal.”
I look to Leong, to check her reaction and she shrugs with her coffee cup to her lips.
“Ok,” I say, “sure.”
“Leong,” my mom begins, “do you need to check with your parents?”
“Mom!” I almost shout, reacting harshly. I’m hung-over, mercurial, and embarrassed that she’s treating Leong like a child.
“No, Mamma” Leong says, looking at me, frowning - stepping over my outrage, solicitously - both answering the question and calming me down at once.

My mom transfers the latest batch of pancakes to the oven, where there’s now a flat baking pan piled with them. She closes the oven, flicks off the gas burner, picks up a silver tray that was lying on a side table, covered with a kitchen towel, and comes over to us.

She lifts the towel and we see two covid booster syringes and alcohol wipes.
“Now?” I say, slightly alarmed (I’m not a big fan of shots).
She raises one syringe to the light for a brief inspection and taps it twice. She cleanses my right arm with an alcohol wipe, gently pinches an area and injects me with one quick, smooth motion - I hardly feel it. She steps around to Leong, who’s also sleeveless, and repeats the process with the other syringe.

And just like that, we’re all boosted, in less than a minute. She hands us both our updated covid cards and says, "Alexa, announce breakfast is ready.”
Doctor moms can be handy.

Drug; he controls my brain.
He stirs an irresistible blend of chemicals in my body and convinces me to fall for him; he increases blood flow to the primitive areas of my brain and activates the circuits responsible for love and desire.

Adrenaline; he balances my stress.
He keeps my heart strong and healthy as thoughts of him and us dominate me and excite me, prompting me to get tachycardia (fast heart rate above 100 bpm) and my blood pressure to rise.

Dopamine; he regulates my focus.
He stimulates desire and triggers pleasure in me; I remember everything about us, then forget about my surroundings; I am motivated to please him, then I daydream and become unable to stay on task.

Serotonin; he stabilizes my mood.
He charms and induces me to perspire and relax, crave and distance him, lose and gain sleep, feel pain and relief, get happy and upset, and decrease and increase my immune system functions.

Medication; he forces my loveswept cells to go haywire.
He has cured my lovesickness, shooed away my regrets, helped me move on from my past, boosted my (self-)confidence, made me look forward to tomorrow, and offered me a ticket to bliss.

Oxytocin; he enables me to produce lovestruck hormones.
He affects my moral molecules as he attracts my undivided attention, pushes me to trust him, raises attachment and empathy, brings psychological stability, and encourages me to want to be closer to him.

Vasopressin; he causes me to secrete lovetastic chemicals.
He renders me monogamous and continues to have me hooked onto him; he makes me thirst for him, display amorous behavior, defend him and us, and maintain a strong partnership.

Love is a captured moment
A song in tune
A sound in silence
A crystal so pure

Love is a boosted hearbeat
A thousand callings
violet roses are blue
For the "Te Amo" you wanted so true

Set me deep down
And pick me apart, when you feel like
'Cause I know you won't forget to remember
Keep me confused
With your picking up
Writing blocks about a stuck tape recorder

The unlikeliest place to find confidence
A boosted self esteem,
When others tore and ripped my mind,
My body image,
Bullied as a child and fourth it continued,
It never seized to amaze me,
The comments they threw,
Like stones they did harm me,
My name was ugly
I named myself unique
My name was freaky
I named myself limited
My name was what many thought I was then,
I named myself what I would be now.
I grew then to be the same as before,
Or so I had thought,
One day arrived at my college life,
Your camera flashed and I began to feel
Different...
They named me ugly
You made it feel as though I wasn't
They named me a freak
You used me for art
To this day,
Years after that,
Thanks to you,
I don't feel so ugly
Don't feel as much like a freak,
You showed me,
I can be infront of the camera and not always behind it.
Thank you,
For being more than a photographer,
More than a friend,
You were a boost to this bullied little girl's self worth and self esteem!

-Kathia Mariana Landeros

She was the epitome of simplicity,
A key to elegance.
It was her style,
Her signature on what she wore.
Her own style she picked from fashion,
Cause fashion fades quickly,
Style remains forever,
It represents quality.
The colours she wore were those that looked good on her.
She dressed not to be noticed,
But, she dressed to be remembered.
It gave her confidence,
Boosted  her personality.
Promoted modesty, beauty,
And above all elegance.

It's about loving what you do for being who you are, tooting your own horn to celebrate yourself as you tumble out of your blog right on your Facebook. It's all about the you in you showcasing  your own self to show what you got and prove why you're the star. The next big thing in social media: it's so over now. The new platform was old hat before you even upped the stats while tipping your hat to the old social platforms. Why? Content. It's all about posting original content so you can get caught in your social media network, haul yourself to shore, and fillet yourself on Twitter. It's about drinking outside of the box, parked, with a beer on your dashboard. Upping the stat-check until the chat stacks its own status update without you. It's about getting the apps BEFORE they are released so you get in on the ground floor as they leap from the burning upper levels. It's about following yourself until they know that you know that the blind are leading the ditch-diggers to water.  Work smart, fish smart, let the net do the work as you socially engage the fish community on social media.

-- Facebook boosted ads is where it’s at in posted social advertising.
    
-- Instagram is a serious branding tool for brands of any kind, especially for ranch-hands of free-range cattle, cowboys and indian tech gurus.

-- Boosted posts do well if you want posts to boost more frequently than existing fans or their friends.

--You know your In-platform ad tracking analytics are top-notch when your train leaves without you from Big Six platform.

I was born wrapped in a black body bag.... They call that foreshadowing...so to lighten my appearance they try to remember me as a white outline.. chalked......upon asphalt.... and say it was this *** fault.... I was only known as an A...4.0 but I never made the cut... as I got my first F....Foolish Acts....Of being born Black... Or Incomplete...As I lay holed in the street...I hate the facts...that I will be a *****...even tho I know better...But my Ipod teaches me to ***** better... to be a NWA....a ***** with Attitude.... Not a NWP....a Negus With Pride... So I walk in stride... influenced like my ancestors... by music...rhythm and beats... See the devil knows what you'll bop to... rock to... So he muffled the sounds of Love and Peace...and Boosted the way of the streets... hoods.. and Lifeless...  So that You would automatically see me as ratchetness... When I could have grew to be the very definition of peace... Now I'm just another problem... and you'll never see me as a victim... only the agitator...because You've listed to the same beats, watched the same feeds and ingested all the fabrications as truths...They have taken it to far making the stereotypes WorldStars  And All I ever did was become what you wanted me to be in the first place....A Pale Lifeless outline of white Dust....That you will inhale without justice... #IamBrown

I still can hear the drifting cars
and burnouts in my ears.

feels like it was just yesterday
where red lights lasted years

skies were full of rubber--smoked,
sun was cold and hot

a yesterday from months before
I couldn't have forgot

I feel your hand collapsing mine,
the jokes and many laughs

comradery amongst the rain,
perfume, cologne, race gas

I just had slipped up days before
and told you my heart fell

sun set and woke, so many jokes,
cars ran parallel.

a yesterday I won't forget,
you took my hands in yours

the sun hiding behind the clouds
few raindrops on our pores

while pistons move in cylinders
two cars line up somewhere

crankshafts like jacks in boxes,
and wind blows through our hair

you looked at me like time was lost
while friends sat watching speed

my heart beat faster than the
boosted car that I heard lead

surrounded by our favorite things
a few people that we knew

I saw a smile fill your eyes
when you said "I love you."

There are many people clearly
Who dislike Michael O Leary
And his company Ryanair
Who offer flights abroad, low fare.
I have to say I am a fan,
I have great respect for the man
For how he built the company
And boosted our economy.
When with Ryanair I have flown
Very few problems have I known.
What I pay for is what I get;
The have never let me down yet!
And they are always improving
With passenger numbers proving
Many like to fly Ryanair
Despite all the bad press out there.
Let's give credit where it is due,
To Ryanair and Michael too.
Ryanair is undoubtedly
A great Irish success story.

tizzy looped his past: he had looped it and then looped it howevah, whoop to diz
gangstapoetry boosted its duties newly
we simply gs, whose duties include

slowmoflow like snoop, or p, ain't no thang
i create slang in the hate center, last trip i flew thru loops, break dancers and readers
want answers, so we give straight answers

lyrics of fame bangers, one rhyme for eight
don't take chances, tizz stylobate, sunrise
poems born from crime, give it some time
gotta come right, sell it all at one price

my blood cries in rough nights, plagued by
enough of tough stuff, but me ain't a fluff
i bluff and take what's rightfully mine
tizz is frightfully nice, he neva comes twice

coco loco, monica matadora tending
first song jeezy's "poppin" pimpin pimpz
red-blodded hamza comin ova to test me
subtly intimidating, i just call him "habibi"

ice breaker, you feel me, we good, truly
check out jammed jay, pushin designer
hamza on the toilet, yayo, his girl, bunny
snugglin wit jammed jay for real by now

close to my dj area, rubbin *** gainst ****
tina staring camly into her secret intention
i expect something vaguely, forget it, tho
as hamza al-mighty gets back, explodes

he beats up jay, promptly breakin' his nose
jay looks at the blood; pulls out a cudgel
bashin hamza's skull, flesh splinters
hamza strikes back wit em bludgeons

wondaland's red light, serving proudly 24/7
hamza's pack, yousif, said, wassim and mo
ready to battle the enemy of the enemy
lego goon, antwone, bobby butchah, juan

BLAST   —   direct focus on a terrorist virus
that swims in breath and touch,
in globules of spittle and ssnot see,
waiting to plant roadside RNA bombs
in nostrils—from flesh to newsflash fantasies

with

a Fear-O-Meter Lockdown grip
of Crisis Management Economics:
Gaslit Fiat economy crash test dummies
tested within psychosocioschizological
experiments of the psychobacteriological

transfer of power, control, and wealth—

stats data for thinktanks and simulations:
which strategies are best to get the peasants  
to willingly offer up their lives for an illusion
of safety and protection, what causes people
to remain compliant or to become renegades.

Capitalism, the revolutionary meant to usurp
Queens and Kings, corrupted into a negative
Technocratic Corporatocracy: a Royal Trash
death cult that feeds on its young, sacrifices
its youth to scams, wars, and stolen futures:

a Technocrat Herr Doktor drug pusher
that plies the skin of trial control groups
for the venom of Warpspeed fangs—wraps
its coil around a bundle of willow switches
supple with youth, its victims kept alive

as a fuel source to burn in the corporate engine, and kept weak enough to require another fix "For the betterment of the whole."

(Gaslighting fills mandated shower-coops:
"Trust us, you're sick, and it's your fault.")

Pollute people into isolation against an enemy that has never been truthfully isolated and purified—
an Orwellian leap of faith that breaks:
a crusher of foundational laws,
a crusher of critical thought and bones.

"Destroy (transform) your dreams, milestones, and livelihoods for your safety and protection. We are doing this for you. We care about you. These numbers, these awful numbers are your fault! You're to blame! It's all your fault!"

"Make sure to vote for me come next election."

As much as North America is a globalist,
the New World is also its own experiment.
Fortress North America: the Eugenicist Manager founded upon colonialism and slavery that outsources its crisis economics—
highly contagious, bit with its own snake oil,
an experiment observed to show symptoms
of AIDS, North America attacking itself
in many ways, symptoms of having been
grazed and groomed for decades

in contagion-based sociopolitical templates
that result in acquired bipolar autoimmune
disease: past enemies and geists attained
boosted immunity to defend, adapt—learned
to deflect Sun Tzu's Art of War into itself

with its own momentum. "Unrestricted
Psychological Warfare": a process of confusion and doubt that leads to the demoralization and dehumanization of the target enemy via the subversive tactics of propaganda plowing, cultural memetic warfare, the infection of economy, politics, military, scientific and educational institutions and systems—
cybertech and media espionage and warfare,
all of it leading to symptoms of extreme

polarization and social moral tribalism—
a decades-long psychological, physical
and spiritual draining of the enemy
into a weakened, toxic state, barely worthwhile to conquer fully. The enemy does the rest,

finishes itself off with:

Acquired (Red Auto)ImmunoDefiency Syndrome

Red CONtroll COVID-19 debt slavery—
pandemic crisis, CoVfefe crisis, energy crisis,
population crisis, climate crisis, racism crisis,
market crisis, war crisis, terrorism crisis,
ISIS is is cry sis in crisis and crisis
in crisis debt slavery to the State: Toadies

for the "New Normal" Big Pharma-Big Tech
mechanical heart engine that thrums
with a beat that Zooms in on, Zooms out from
false-positive test results amplified

and distorted into AIDS:

Amplified Information Distortion Syndrome

and

an Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome
in conjunction with a near-infinite number
of variables and determining factors—
an Auto-ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome of
body, mind, soul, and political systems
cruising along an acquired, contagious loop
of a negative-sense RNA socialist Autobahn—

highly contagious, highly experimental in
unprecedented moments of crisis and mirrors: reflections of reflections of reflections
amplified and bent
in sleight-of-hand misdirection and deflection with the virus holding a mirror's face outwards

while

an mRNA 'treatment' infects human cells
to conquer and command them to become
bomb making factories that create
SARS-CoV-2 S-proteins—yes, yes, "inactively" teach T-cells with double-think McCure-all bandAIDS to 'help' identify SARS-CoV-2 RNA. Understood. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction

(for the Terrorist within)

"Here's a fast-tracked vaccine that supposedly boosts the immune system that you're being commanded to weaken."

GMO sleeper cells and non-celled sequences
that can attain causality and symbiosis with
drug and antibiotic resistant organisms,
are sold as the cure that ills

and

misdiagnosed and misunderstood symptoms
of anything and everything
in-between that we've known and seen
are blamed on a laboratory Chimera:

the scapegoat terrorist virus designed
to be highly contagious and gentle to its host
for vaccine programs: Mary's Monster attaining the flame of life within
its Promethean host.

Who made who?

Who knew that the FDA NIH CDC
WHO-Fang North American China Flu Clan

flew the fear and media spread. "Wait for our
next update." Live TV, live virus

with billions of shortsighted treatments
adding ripples to an overflowing soup bowl
of trillions x trillions of RNA particulates,

inactive/active — off/on — negative/positive

Switch:

Spin PCR in the Petri dish:
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish!
What a lot of fish there are!

This one has a little yellow star.....

("Mission Accomplished")

*I never said to you,
my love
That you are growing
within so hazardous
and
always
It’s expanding within the sky
but
I have
twisted,
roosted,
boosted
and hosted
by
You
As Always -
#
@Musfiq us shaleheen

. i come from a very stubborn lot of people, and by coming from a very stubborn (rathert plain ignorant) lot of people, i can tell you that what's currently happening to the fabled anglo-saxons... it's not akin to an austrian subversion of the germans, or the georgian subversion of the russians... there's a difference between being subverted, and being coerced.

i never understood it from the get-go...
now...
   of all the ingenius peoples...
there's a... blocked toilet...
or... as i see it:
                      a media boost...
   obviously the media would receive
boosted ratings
from the ramblings-on
   from that brothel of a house
                     of representatives...
no, no, they'll tell you...
the vote was never ******...
   even with these parliamentary votes
in the recent days...
  
  let's just look
at... "democracy"...

division no. 355
ayes: 315
noes: 235
                        Σ = 550 (13/03/19)

division no. 356
ayes: 314
noes: 276
                         Σ = 590 (13/03/19)

Σ = the no. of voters!

endless no. of examples...
of how... "democracy" works...
shadow veto "circumstances"...
this is... "democracy"...

the agora is... suspect...
the voting agora is always
suspect...
     no wonder...
         i forget the mainstream
scrutiny of the most pointless
votes...
  like that one,
with a majority of, 4.

see... i never understood
"brexit"...
   only because...
the English never lost their
currency...
what sort of otherwise
better proof,
do you need,
for a national sovereignty,
autonomy...
   if... you never gave up
your national currency?
  sorry... you'll have to
reiterate that argument...

you want to prove to be able
to regain...
   what... you already have?
this was a seriously charlie
chaplin moment on
behalf of the Brits...
all the other members...
who joined the union,
but retained their national
currency,
already knew,
or at least subconsciously
predicated the original,
intent & ambition
of the sly helmuts...

               the little mussolinis
are attempting to jump
the sinking ship...
of the vierte *****...
             as we speak...
see... what's confusing about
the british quest for
autonomy...
   you already had it...
by keeping the pound...
anyone spends a euro
in england without a currency
exchange?
             yes, no?

the paranoid peoples have all
kept their currency...
what once were imaginary
shackles, have become:
very literal shackles...

division no. 359
ayes: 321 (tellers: nick smith,
    bambos charalambous
   - of the latter... is that a sort of
dr. faustroll character?)
noes: 278 (tellers: jeremy quin,
         mr alister jack -
of the latter, why does he get a mr
prior to his name?)

question accordingly agreed to.

                   Σ = 599 (13/03/19)

resolved, that this house rejects
the United Kingdom leaving
the European Union without
a withdrawal agreement and
a framework for the future relationship.

i'm guessing: another "special"
one, akin to keeping an ostrich focus
in the sand,
or the h'american constipated ***
of its own.

division no. 354
ayes: 242 (tellers: andrew stephenson, iain stewart)
noes: 391 (tellers: thangam debbonaire, nic dakin)
                        Σ = 633 (12/03/19)

so... this... "democracy"
        is, a "democracy" within...
   maintining a focus on...
ensuring that there is no fixed no.
of voters...
   thereby ensuring that
whatever majority needs to be
achieved, is achieved...
      by the "lost voters",
                    by shadow vetos...
if only we knew the true sigma...
of the parliamentary elect...
  
e.g. division no. 354 contra
    division no. 355...
Σ = 633 (12/03/19)
     Σ = 550 (13/03/19)...
we're talking about
83 parliamentary elect
"disappeared",
turned into ******* mushrooms
over a single night!
while around 17+million
decided over the brexit referendum...

vote: with a gun pressed
against your head...
i could understand that...

   some call it
the: there's no other alternative...
i call it a jackson *******...
or some vague spaghetti dish...
but sure...
it makes sense...
it always did...
the political class
promised the media moguls
a slot of 2 years of persistent
coverage...
   a safety-net of "hot topic"...

      there was never really
a brexit to begin with...
             the italians are poseurs...
do they have the lira?
no, i guess they don't...
           so... why are they posturing
for what the germans forgot...
oh... right...
not as eloquent as the austrians...
ma-ma-machievelli...
     i'm pitying the brits...
   for one reason alone...
    they were never seemingly
subverted...
              they had their currency,
they already know what
political language is like:
overtly-nuanced...
   and that's beside even
employing something as elaborate
as a metaphor...
   politics is its own animal
that decides to be either
caged, or roaming freely...
             what sort of exit
was to be expected,
   when...
               no one exchanged
the currency of the proper
european union, on these isles...
                 to begin with?!
well yeah! limbo m'ah fwend!

           it was always a: "union"...
on paper, or... word-of-mouth...
   there is no ******* collapse
of this vierte *****...
      if england was planning
to exit the european union,
yeah, there would be a collapse
of the union...
   but what sort of collapse
is the world expecting...
given that england has its own
currency,
   and the european union
                    has its own currency?
these youtube internet pundits
are just as bad as the mainstream
media pundits they rally against.

what is this explosive device
that derives all its forces from a fusion reaction
it was way on back in 1945
it ended a war and boosted our pride
a simple little mushroom tattoo scattered over the sky
it will not get you high
you will not fly away
you may not see the world
for you will go and die away
going blind into sight
that ended a reign
a reign of terror not seen since before
before adolf ****** tried to challenge the world
Mutually assured destruction was the policy enacted
for if one person dies
we all shall fall
its a battle of no victor
nor any armistice
it just results in complete annihilation
lets split a little atom
and **** what they say
who needs a treaty
when peace resides at the end of a gun

.
..
...

With Crappó hated by the throng
young York decided to be strong
and told the Log 'you don't  belong'
and silenced him neigh three months long.

The corpse of Crappó lay unsung
amidst the muck of maggot mung.
Adoring words that Crappó flung
brings forth Thee Artiste from the dung.

This ballad now recalls to mind
Log's crummy comments, dull or spined,
a dilettante now much maligned,
the holey scourge of all mankind…

The only question left to face
'ts whether Thee will share Log's place
within the ashes of disgrace
adorning demons' fireplace.

*******

THEE BALLAD of LOGBRAIN CRAPPó
      
Prelude
The lord above returns to earth
descending as an afterbirth
and prattles of his paltry worth
in sluggish lines devoid of mirth.

In tedium the angels sighed
and cast his sorry soul aside,
commanding world and he collide
by grace… and gravity complied.

The earth is now a poorer place
defiled with icons of his face
adorning doggerel disgrace.
With character? No, not a trace.


LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S TALE

His day of birth! A cat meowed?
With nary but a fig endowed
his mama gasped, then laughed aloud
and cast her sin upon a cloud.

Rejected at his mama's gate
he felt his ego desiccate,
wax paranoid and fill  with hate,
his self-esteem disintegrate.

At last the cloud came floating by
and caught an ancient angel's eye.
With pity for the puny guy
she boosted him beyond the sky.

Denied the milk at mama's ****
his nourishment was incomplete
except for jam on Golden street
where angels scrape their moldy feet.

Beholding mortals down below
he ventured into vertigo
and felt his feeble ego grow
beneath a chocolate cheerio.

With halo (brown although it be)
he rose above the holey sea.
"The ruler of the angels, me!"
became his favorite fantasy.

While looking down his nose at them
(upon his head a diadem)
he framed his face in foggy phlegm
and claimed he came from Bethlehem.

He then could hear the angels trill
"Just stop, because you're mortal still,
and even then you're lacking skill
except to serve the swine their swill" .

While scribbling lines in lethargy,
he foamed and drooled "supremacy,
preeminence" delusively…
unbearable monotony .

And with a visage woebegone
he scribbled trash till well past dawn
not worth the paper written on
and thus he made the angels yawn.

At last the angels felt dismay
and chose to act without delay…
with nothing but a negligee
he landed in an alleyway .

Since then he's never ceased to whine
"Please worship I, I am divine,
the lord of those who worship swine".
He's pricky as a porcupine.

Well, back on earth since Saturday,
he daubs his face in disarray
with soul patch stripe and black beret
and prances like a popinjay.

His mental age stays stuck at three.
And never reaching puberty
he scrawls some **** poetry
which seems to be his destiny.



LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S EPITAPH

Log Crappó… well, he died in shame
cascading crap, his sole acclaim
accented ó, his only fame
with no one but himself to blame.

He finally made his last descent
inside the pit of punishment.
Now Satan's feeling discontent,
replaced as Prince of hell's torment.

On looking back, one must admit
he suffered from a lack of wit,
could never quite  get over it
so wrote his Masterpiece-of-****.


        CrE  aka  Trollminator

A Rich man laid trapped in an evil desert obis.
Meanwhile a bounty hunter searched for a disabled elder a miss.
He heard the screams desperate deep and blurted.
He ignored his senses, weighting risk like none had heard it.

His body walked on but his nose smelt loot.
He risked his life and clawed him out honey to scoop.
Boosted on shoulders the triumph tasted lick on sweet!
A statue I will make in your honor for your courageous feet!

“No need I’m just happy your safe no need for honor!”
But deep in the invisible dark silence he brood for his daughter.
Then a stench of half eaten carcass ransomed the moment gross and misplaced.
Staring in disgust they agreed “What a pitiful disgrace!

The day before walked the elder man whom was blind and mute.
He heard a cry from the soil and searched in earnest for the root
He clapped his hands and stomped his feet
Risking his very life in blind eyes deceit

Grabbing at the wind, tired broken in vain.
The rich man heard his noisy attempts and cursed his name.
That didn't stop the blind and mute man from trying.
Instead a jagged stone gashed open his leg leaving him bleeding and dying.

The grains of the dessert soaked the earth and cried for his rest.
As the coyotes fought over his wounded flesh....
The rich man claimed “my life I swear will be in your place!!”
With his last bit of life the old man wished the man in the pit would be safe................................

we were tired of the unknown,
tired of the mocking
deep blue, so we
peeled back the ocean
like an old band-aid on scarred skin,
just to see what sat beneath.
and we were
satisfied, our egos boosted,
because it was our ruins
cast across the ocean floor,
it was our waste
that the band-aid
was hiding.

He sits before the tv.
With its black and white images.
He watches in shock and awe.
What seems to be the greatest thing in the world.
Cars disappear.
Tigers appear.
A woman sawed in half.
Magical reappears.
"Such great feats." He mumbles.
"Such great talent"
Then an idea hits him.
He now knows what to do!
"Yes yes, an illusionist I must be!" He cries with excitement.
Down at the magician shop
He finds the beginners box...

Shuffle

Practice Practice Practice
Its all he has done.
Its time for him to show his skills.
A nearby restaurant has hired him.
So he can show his talent,
To belly swollen customers.
A card flips to the top of the deck,
Not even a clap nor a smile.
A coin bends before them,
Not even wonder filled their eyes.
With his spirit broken,
He tried to perform his last act.
The illusion fails.
The crowd boos and shouts.
"You will never be good."
"Get out, get out".

Shuffle

The bright lights.
Nearly blinding him.
People parade before him,
As never before.
Vegas
An Illusionist dream.
He has finally reach his pinnacle.
Practice Practice Practice
It surely has been the trick.
The crowd wondering what great acts he will perform.
"I'll perform the greatest trick every to be done." He boosted before them.
"This is all just a dream."
"You'll  wake up at home."
"1...2...3...awake!"

Re-Shuffle

The little boy's eyes open from sleep.
"Practice Practice Practice." He proclaimed to himself.
That will be key, he thinks.
"Yes yes, an illusionist I must be!"

Final Shuffle

"Just follow your dreams and you will see."
"Just look at me, I'm in vegas."
He winks

Deal

Royal flush

It's getting darker,
malice, resentment,
jealousy,
a fruit salad Of youth misfits
from hacker
to packer,
smuggler to rapper,
but what happen was after
Was The economy became a *******

with no fathers to guide it,
cause they already tried this
Now our kids like us could lose an earlier retirement

And I'm tired of it
causing a chain of half *** generation backlash,
so more get thier back thrashed
by their own family while a fat cat

Brings bad luck like a black cat
Filthy rich while some live out of a backpack
And this is me claiming my
two cents so u can tell
The government to tax that

Cuz they Always got us to laugh at
while they get their back scratched
But he gets a happy ending so it's
not just his back scratched

No wonder hes chaffing
and'll probably be chasing penicillin
Cuz itchy And scratchy has nothing to do with cartoons to this vilan

Now the employees the boss
And the boss like ur salads tossed
But we all have to bare a cross
Now my Stomachs all in knots

Cuz Everything's, rush rush
Kiss *** kiss *** blush blush
U wanna move on  up up?
Then find a **** And **** ****

While cancers at us like duck duck
And the goose is getting more then a goose egg
when their goose is cooked

and mother goose told us about 3 political parties not just one
she said
"Three blind mice see how they run"

So while George tells the idiot a story
about the rabbits
The greedy let money make them a savage
while We die slowly from our habits,

Why do we have it,
And To call us mankind is silly
Cuz what mans kind these days really? The one thinking with his wily

to free *****, feelin up a  womans manipulations and call it biology
By staying abreast psychologically
Which is a sociopaths  ideology

now im off of my own topic
Like i provided it just to rob it
Like I went to my bank and boosted the same cash I jus deposited

No wonder Im rich with annoyance
i must have won a lottery
thats how all these things bother me
my community missing comradery

Instead we steal with robbery
slaughterin wuts left of the economy
Like ur ****** coming back again
only this time for ******

Cuz things arnt the way dey outta be. Everything's about novelty
When we need less walk in clinics for addictions, and bad doctoring

Until narcotics flood the street
Someone tell those officering
dealers r those with Scripts 4 oxys
But nice that they're offering

Wut happen to philosophy
Where are all the neo saucrates?
Shooting for monopoly but that cant save u being a ******* obviously  

oh this horror is such comedy
Lately I think i need a lobotomy
good and evil battle within me opposed Im like a walking dichotomy

Now procreations odd to me
flawed To be a double standard like belief of having no right To play god and take life yet its ok to us to play god and make life

It's contradiction is guess
depends on position I guess
2balls to help my two cents express
so this is a requisition I guess

Far from living true freedom but its
Been gone so long who needs em
People say u cant find a trusting person these days..so Y dont u B one

But no, we always need some
Reward or valid reason,
When we already got the biggest...
sharing a home in all seasons

But lately were greatly
crazy, Like oh baby
maybe lately, we fried Our brains chasin the American Dream unsafely

No wonder I sadly dislike myself
And everyone else lately
this is how the world has made me
So u can love me or hate me

But from now, I refuse to allow
Another power to make or break me
I won't follow rules or lemming like fools, I will no longer live safely

Or by a risk management thought
Cause one day well all finally stop
And See that the only real thing
Given to us is each other and not

Valuing it Is like our words and being and heard, Feeling emotion to cry
But still were sick enuf to look in a lovers eye to say I love u as a lie

So don't let them , sell u a high
sell u a dream or sell u heaven
Cuz The ones selling treatment is
usually the same ones producing the weapons

And I tried to spare u this rant
But it just can't be kept in
Something smells badly and sadly
i think its the **** I just stepped in.....

virtual ink etched on vitual paper.. synapse rebounds taken down, on tablet... applet releasing the
imagin- ed pressure in my incohezant brain. little bytes of... making it right sent into.. the webby ether clouds....... zip drive compressed, pixelated, ram driven,memory boosted, data mined, spam shot,
drive by.... now encrypted ... password denied... .....virtual ink lost to the .....link ... .......... 404 error ...... page not found... virtual paper, now, lost forever.

destined to be in
www. miscellaneous file/ never to see the light of day. not org. nowheres

ok, we believe in so many things

that can always be true

i have been so many people

but, brian allan is the present oh yeah

but i remember when i get the story out

i can write so much out of me

i can say that saturn has life, ya know

even if NASA  hasn’t found it yet

the reason is, it’s invisible to them

cause murdered children are blocking then path

and each of the children’s earth bodies

are suffering in more ways than one

ya see, me, i prefer to rid the itch

as well as rid my toothless old hag

and slowly get rid of my varicose veins

ya know, i am fucken tired right now

but you guys need to see

i am in the psych ward on earth ya see

i ain’t enjoying it, despite writing so many things

but i want to change the name one day to the buddhist place for mental health breakdowns

where people can go when they are sick of life

it’s a sure way to get rid of the traumas of heaven

yeah, it keeps me alive ya see

i can drink methane milk shakes

every day and night

and i don’t want to fight

cause that takes my reputation away from me

i remember when those young dudes said

hey, man, your the the love shack dude

i wanted this to go on forever, but it became a distant voice

enough is enough, i want it to stop

i was glad they were my friends but i don’t want their pity

but being called the love shack dude

boosted my mojo, oh yeah mate yeah

i felt so cool, but enough is enough

i actually felt like a cool young dude

enough is enough i am not a shy young dude no more

ya see, there is no POWER in being a young dude, no

if the parents leave you money in their will

you should look at their money as their last gift to you

and not for them to be a target for a bullet from a gun

to get her inheritance, no way hoi zei

no, the love shack dude doesn’t do that

no no never, never never no way

but we shouldn’t force the inheritance out of them

enough is enough, no inheritance fraud for me

no i am the love shack dude, forever and ever a people

Out of town plates running
out crossing states and
no stopping me now.

Boosted some gas to go
down
to El Paso
I
boosted a broad in some bar

and then some silver star dude
imbued with the law
shot me

what for?
I cried.

Hail Lucifer!
Blind fools fall

Hail the Lord!
blind fools fall

Loons fixated upon wrong doings
Hail Lucifer!
Ego boosted

Yet can you not observe your own?
Hail Lord God!
Ego replenished

Imbeciles out casted from reason
Hail Lucifer!
God forbid them from hearing!

Curse the wicked short-sighted !
Diminish explanation ,
Vulnerability !

For blind fools cannot be re-painted
Hail demons!
Let the blind fools fall