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Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.
Madeysin Jun 2015
Aware enough to cheer the game on,
As they strike out,
Your son sits behind you,
Keys clicking,
To fill the void of a good foot ball throw,
Hallow hello hell,
Fatherless fathers fell.
To sleep because the drugs,
Are easier than the kids,
He made.
llcb Mar 2016
Og det er jo ikke meningen at jeg skal græde på en tirsdag, fordi du siger højre og jeg siger venstre, men alligevel får du mig til at hade dig når jeg går under gadelamperne for at fylde min hals med røg fremfor råb, fordi jeg råber jo kun fordi jeg mener det og hader dig jo kun nu fordi jeg elsker dig om 5 minutter, men alligevel, hvorfor skal vi altid sætte ild til hinanden før vi ved hvor meget vi begge brænder for det her?
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.

Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.

With smash hits like
"This traffic is *******"
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals

Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.

old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.

"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.

Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"

So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
eequivocal Feb 2014
we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.
John F McCullagh Jun 2012
The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide."
"Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside."
"We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."
"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."
"With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state."
"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some coed's behind."

We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
told whoppers in an endless loop.
There were quotes from
the World's Great Religions
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.

" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."

" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, without moving my lips.
In Dublin during the 1916 insurrection, the Medecity Institute was destroyed by British shells.  It didn't take too much imagination to change one letter- then it was off to the races with my imagination.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Alfred Edward Housman wrote about this county from London,
we smoke pipes and drink pints to honour the scholar's story,
which can be checked out the library, former learning quarters
of an explorer named Charles Darwin, who sits in grey outside,
despite leaving town in adolescence, returning from Galapagos
to The Mount, where my parents met in mental health sickness,
gave life to an original species that theories would have hated,
like Robert Clive, who earned his knighthood by looting India,
cried in parliament, now we want his stage ousted, his house is
next to the cottage where I sleep restless because myself and
a few other Shropshire lads failed to escape, even after studying
centurion debates, athletic form and getting serenaded by greats,
where are the names of those who rose from minimum wage?
Poem #29 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. This poem addresses the issues and themes in my collection most directly - namely, the class division.
The kids want nooks and Kindle Fire,
The teenagers want Limos on hire,
College grads are busy on Tablets and I pads,
Laptops for moms and DSLR's for Dads!
This Christmas things are going awry,
Fettucine has replaced Mashed potato and gravy,
Hence Ol' Santa's gone really techno savvy,
He's exchanged his deer for a brand new Ferrari!!
Joseph Rogerson Mar 2013
This is for those sky high low and ***** media grads of the fate-late noughties,
grasping,
pathetically,
as dreams slip like their youth of yesteryear.
Unpaid, over-laid, saturated with the ***-comedy of their university days.

Then comes the choke and cloak of the next interview,
interview,
interview,
the view into the next room is so beautiful and dazzling after that last ****,
so beautiful and dazzling after the next ****,
so beautiful and dazzling, please, I swear I'll just have one more ****.

Ceremonial drug use,
a testimonial abuse of government aid,
paid to those by the Hair Blair bunch of chumps who screamed the promise of higher education for the lot,
a degree for every adult,
an unpaid job for every graduate.

The clouded confidence stutter of the high as a helicopter, once potential author,
lost in the part-time smog of inner city university town down-and-outers.
Left adrift with no financial spine,
left to pine the disillusionment they now know they felt way before they knew what they've come to do,
and be,
and exist as forever.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
School commencements looming;
Bands and grads are tuning,
Moving from room to room
On this last day in June.

From womb to pre-school
Kids migrate,
To elementary/high school dissipate;
Trade schools, colleges,
And universities await,
Punch the clock at the workplace gate.
Summer vacation helps make the break.
But make no mistake,
The last day of school is just for show,
I hope they're schooled enough to know.
The last day of school is just a term
Rightly debunked during life's sojourn:
Ahead there's still life-long learning.
Notes (optional)
brandon nagley May 2015
I agape of all finished afterthought, some allude to almanac's packed of alms, some totaled, sold and bought!!
Altruism,pigism, ambiguous to ambitions own an'nals,
Some take fairies to ride, some get high getting annulled on thine way out!!!
Antagonisms councils costumed to personify perverse college boys,
They all wear ties,
Doest thou prepare to die?
Doth thou succumb to heavy metal noise? Subterfuges narrate concert speakers of noose tied voids!!!
Precious,
Precious flamboyant memorizer,
Hath thou memorized to thy fullest privelage?

Art thou the born leader thou claims to be?
Or art thou the slave of thine flattery made village?

This forlorn spirit is burdened down to be free,
To be free of all devils,
All doubts and all deed!!!

Where is ones donational vocational school grads love?
Is it hidden within lockers of broken hearted hunnies?

Doth thy stomach overflow with butterfly fluids?
While many rob you of lovers money,
Dizzy funnies!!!

Hand holders of descendants grumpy mishappers,
Where is love when one seeks so hard for it????!
John F McCullagh Oct 2012
Your impulses are generous, kind and pure-
But impose costs on us we can’t endure.
One point three trillion spent each year, tis said,
to keep our current poor in their own beds.
America has debt related worries
While social engineers break out new Mores.
Recent Grads despair of their careers
and student loans are going in arrears.
Priests, Teachers and the Boy Scouts, rank and file,
Apparently are staffed with pedophiles.
Socialism’s great and life is sunny-
until you run out of other people’s money.
Christopher Mata Jul 2014
It was the 7th grade , you sat across the room from me
i would sit there day dreaming of what could be
one day i worked up the courage to ask you on a date
i was so anxious that day i just couldnt wait
we went for ice cream because you screamed so loud when you saw the sign
you dropped yours but thats okay , we got to share mine
i walked you home that night confident that the night went alright
so i turned and said to you , darling would you kiss me goodnight?
success!
my eyes shut
* * *
my eyes open , we made it through highschool
it feels like it happened all to soon
we toss up our caps and pack up our bags
because now we want to be college grads
before we head out we spent one last night at home
we talked so much my mother threatened to cut off the phone
so i decided to sneak out to see you
because there was one more thing i had to say to you
I looed deep into your eyes and said baby i love you
but before i could leave i had to say my best line
darling would you kiss me goodnight?
you rolled your eyes at me but it still worked
the picture fades
* * *
The camera rolls
were walking on the beach next to the tumbling waves, as you clutch your red balloon
i didnt do such a bad job picking a spot for our honeymoon
i still couldnt believe the reaction of your old man
when i asked to have your hand
he started to cheer
then started to chug bottles of beer
the wedding was perfect but when you walked down the aisle my heart stalled
the best description i could give would be cinderella attending her ball
the attendence of your family was small
but thats okay we can share mine
so now as we roll in the sand
we lay as the waves crash on land
I turn to you and say darling would you kiss me goodnight
this time you shocked me by saying .. every night
end of scene
* * *
The pen hits the page
beep beep beep
its the day we dreamed of
after 9 months of mood swings, cravings, and craziness
beep beep beep beep
after many hour of labor , finally the baby is here
Sarah , thats what we name her , you opened your arms to have her near
beep beep beep beep beep
you never got to hold her even though thats the only thing you wanted to do
i couldnt believe my eyes , i was losing you
beep beep beep beep beep beep
one of the nurses took sarah so i could kneel by your side
the pain in my eyes was too much to hide
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
your fading away, what do i say
i opened my mouth to say it was going to be okay
but you shushed me and whispered ... darling would you kiss me goodnight?
end of chapter
* * *
The intro
it saddens me that i wont be there when you wake
and that i wont be there to answer Sarah's cries
or when she calls you momma and your look of surprise
or be there to tell her she can date when her age isnt on the clock but i go by military time
or be with you in your golden years
to stand by you and face your fears
i wanted to grow old with you for goodness sake
but the thought of losing you was more than i could take
they say your heart wasnt big enought , but thats okay you can have mine
so you see this letter is for you
dont be angry just hear me through
i love you and its my job to protect you
i only did what i had to do
so when you feel sad and alone just think back
to the very 1st date when you dropped your double chocolate mint cone
or the many others when we wouldnt get off the phone
how you made me smile
from end to end it would measured a mile
or the day you said yes to being my wife
but most importantly .... that you made my life
conclusion
* *
Static anxiety housed in a shipping container
Bound for the coast of Maine.
Pandora slipped out from the lead-lined box,
And drowned out of sight, in elapsing waves.

Hallowed shores in the presence of beached harlequins
Sipping sand as their bodies get dragged
Latched and cast off as bait
Used to pull Poseidon out from the depths

Holding fast as shipping lanes rust,
Bleeding off into the current bellow.
Path marked by Aphrodite’s bust.
Belittled at the point of metaphysical conceit.

The epic crashed and burned
Turned to dust through a negligent Milton
Burning down the library of Alexandria
Housing ashy books with inadequate binding.

Homer, now, repeats a Harvard grads humor
Doh filled remnants of a paralyzed form
Duff downed in the hours after the plants closing
The barred doors leave Joyce with nothing left to quote.
Arcassin B Mar 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

Have a brief moment,
Saying that you work at your best,
Even though you know I ain't mad at that,
You're getting me stressed,
You shouldn't have been killed,
You shouldn't have been killed,
Gotta do it the right way,
Play your cards right,
Gold fish hooked out of the pond,
You should have stayed,
But you know I ain't mad,
And glad that you're sad,
The only piece of me I ever had,
They were thinking she has a eyes closed ******* off the school grads,
But do what you do,
Because I'm at a higher place,
Led in the right direction,
No,
This isn't a phase,
I definitely ain't mad at that.
01.
faithfulpadfoot Jan 2016
The sun rises, baby blush pink,
Like tongues and fingertips and lips,
First forming sounds, like cries of song,
In innocent young bliss.
Beginning to scream, deep crimson,
Red mouth, red socks, red babygrow,
First learning to crawl, to walk, to run,
In wide eyed exploration.
Cool to a blue, like the ocean,
Blue towel, blue bucket, blue ***** and net,
First time at the beach, the sea and the sand,
A little world traveller.
Clouds block the sun, white sheep's wool,
White nurse, bleak town, white hospital gown,
First meeting with Death, too young to know,
Poor, motherless child.
Many hours pass, a clear blue sky,
Blue coat, blue shirt, school uniform,
First day at school, with a bright, nervous smile,
A grin, ‘Have fun today, kid.’
School day is over, skies dark blue,
Blue eyes, cold lips, but a warm, warm kiss,
First long-term girlfriend, with hair velvet black,
University grads.
The sky’s getting darker, deep purple,
The wedding dress and the new front door,
First proper house, with a bare wooden floor,
‘Little girl’s growing up.’
The sky turns red, deep crimson,
Red sheets, red lips, red underwear,
First time on a bed, she says with a laugh,
And a racing heart.
A sudden blackness, like blackout blinds,
Black suits, black coffin, grim funeral march,
The man with the scepter brushes past,
She’s an orphan now.
Then out of the darkness, the moon and stars,
Bright eyes, bright laughs, bright kitchen lights,
First time that she’s laughed in a long, long time,
With a drink in one hand.
The white of the moon, glowing, smiling,
White sheets, white face, white hospital bed,
First time being a mother, and holding her child,
Another day dawns.
A life can go by in a single day.
brandon nagley May 2015
Anomous snitching,
Tooth dead crinching,
The Grinch has made his way in!!
Talk of the town,
What's made is yours,
And what's ours is yours.
You bee sting amongst the nest!!
Epeleptic symptoms turn the chairs of doctoria request!!!
Antsy fingers,
Written unspokeness,
While the ongoing brokenness rewrites history paradox sense!!
Repentance,
Repentance,
Jurrassic marmelade!
Giving up all your readiness for our creditless credit carded trades!!!
Grass root momentary,
Head stone obituary, you are soo lovely in day!!!
The weeds that pull wrap divinely,
Enter signification relieve all things timely...
Relinquishments own freshing!!!
Grads of the ages for a scripturetic blessing,
How seasonal this all is!!!!!!!!!
Four chambered mansion, hearts beats immaculate to sweets and treat's of sugar can value!!!

Where coffee rocks fall through open lace of white state rags....
Formal education is like eating soup with a fork ...
You might get a taste but you'll never be nourished ...
Copyright March 25 , 2022 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Ray Suarez Dec 2015
There were managers
College grads
Conspiring in the corner
Next to the dumpster
And the women complained
About mistreatment
And the men worked with
Aching backs
Dying to prove
Something.
Everybody is busy
Everybody is angry
Nobody feels
Fulfilled.
Some walked fast
Some dragged themselves
Some sweated
Some laughed
Some screamed
Some looked
Miserable.
Everybody submitted.
Christ...
It's just retail.
Every morning
I say to myself
"I'm going in,
but I ain't doin
****
Today."
Youdont Needthis Dec 2018
I'm here
To entertain
To play ukelele while
****** addicts in Prague score plump ***** poppies
Under a lazy summer sun
And their flirtations with death and their pursuit of high doses of deep oblivion
Are reduced to a journalist's article submission and the breathing, sweating, bleeding men and women are now
Still lights and colors in an image we can cast blank stares at
I play guitar
And the sound of riots that burned and looted chunks of Baltimore is now poignant accompaniement
For my dainty melodies
The hurling of insults, bottles and teargas
Are just the blazes of Rome for my fiddle
I'm here
As your fellow Rwandan and neighbor
to **** your daughter when our party has declared war upon yours
To chase you and your surviving family with machetes through the thick marshes that surround our farms
And then later mold that nightmarish scenery into a short video in which I
Beg you and the world for the sweet relief of forgiveness
In the background
I'll play a grand piano
I'm calling you
To perform my executive duty and express my heartfelt condolences for the death of your young husband
Whose name I've already forgotten and need to ask you for
Your reaction will be televised between toilet paper advertisements and blatant social conditioning

The pretty melody will continue throughout the daily openings of
Hands
arms
legs
eyes
mouths
cans
boxes
doors
gates
hearts
minds
And I'm not bitter or mad and I dont want you to be either
You think I'll leave you because a client got you pregnant but I wont
I'm here to take care of you in your 60usd hotel room when youre too sick to work
I'm still holding you tight after your close friend overdosed in the bathroom and died
I'm keeping my composure when the interviewer casually asks me if I hate everyone who doesn't look like me
I'm cheating all of my factory workers out of ever getting paid well
And then I'm sending them overseas to steal the jobs of college grads we hired
I'm being born while hundreds of people drown on the MS Estonia
And I'm dying from choking on a salty tortilla chip

Yet Still
The notes will calmly drift
Amidst the gunfire between rebels and regime in the rubble-laden deserts of Syria
Amidst the firm commands from Green Beret cadre to candidate in the lush woods of Camp Mackall
Through the inconviently fatal exit wounds in my teenaged chest
and the large caliber bullet holes in cheap beer cans I'm shooting for practice
I'm not telling you this so you can squeeze our experiences into a mondo film that ego-tripping critics will loathe
I just want you to not fixate so harshly on the particulars of how the codes you crack end someone's life on the other side of the world
And realize for a moment how many of your relationships are just thinly veiled plays made between you and your rut-enabling neuro transmitter dealer
I just want you to walk across this beautiful, extraordinary earth where giant beasts stomped and loving parents were murdered
Walk right over to where I am
And strum these strings
Entertain
While this world lives and breathes and pukes and cries and sings
pull my backpack over my shoulder
and stifle the tears
not one **** friend
in four ******* years
all you did it
finally pushed me to the cliff
questioning if the the jump would hurt
and other what ifs
i don't wanna die
i just don't wanna feel so unloved
bullied and pushed and discredited
never ever enough
i thought once it was over
i'd be free of the panic
now i'm just alone
and i'm awfully manic
reliving those years
of rejection and pressure
feels like i'll be in
highschool forever
Sinister Population Control, Sans Cosmic Creator?

Maybe,... I shudder to think
up the sleeve and ornate cufflink
of divine maker, a deliberate pitch
to foist **** sapien on brink
viz self destruction,

asper bedlam upon Earth that doth stink
a hellish conspiracy linkedin with tragedy
namely sinister predestined plan to shrink
terrestrial realm usurped by ink
king a pact of devilish destruction, demolition

denunciation, et cetera doth stoke
unslakable thirst of ****** drink
****** out the flesh o' every body electric
as zombies and vampires quench

fifty plus shades of deep pink
drain liquid of life courtesy of chosen thugs
incognito golem aliens to **** and sink
civilization, until every person extinct

cold comfort (from this Yankee of mortal fate
lifelong resident of Keystone state),
one day extraterrestrials, (whom might
inhabit planet teeming with billions)
will excavate and then curate

a sorry lot of creatures, where bullets did eliminate
an arrogant, haughty, narcissistic...peoples
(a handful of exceptions to the contrary),
whose various tribes never adapted to integrate
sundry superficial differences among themselves

instead chose to allow, enable and provide
(Putin shill) collusion did willingly corroborate
with dopplegangers i.e. "FAKE" guardians
whose real not so impossible mission
to feign friendship, at heart..a pie rate

but sole outlook to eradicate
coercive, self immersive,
passive, et cetera species
and blithely earn blind trust, unwittingly mutate
into their likeness only to trump

pet gentlemen's agreement brittleness did break
as "FAKE" and devastate
democratic and constitutional compact
(utilizing bribery to swindle elite schools
so crazy rich parents could manipulate

levers of prestigious academia) to satiate
egos bragging about brilliant offspring
only to undermine the complex edifice
spoiling promising futures via golden gate
bridge of studious grads,
who exercised sweat o' their pate.
Terry Bradshaw, hairy dads' law, fairy grads' law, Mary's mad shawl
kick ***, shave *****, crucify Christians, blind mice, sign by scrawl
a contract on Loke to make tall movie marquees for Run Run Shaw
who swore an oath on the soul of his dead brother to not wear a bra
till Galen Winsor's criticality mass of U-235 forces an A.E.C. brawl
over sunlight burned from David Bowie's epical "Time Will Crawl"
what possesses no musical tempo for Barry's beagle minus forepaw.
Chree Feb 7
Forgive music

I want to elevate
See my drips like lemonade.
Want to be different? I'm the same.
I'm a fan for the belly dance eleven hands on the mic son thats alot of wrap.
Drop a couple stacks on the pad this alot of class for these grads steady with the bags.
Alot of crayon in the drink tipper from a bottom rack still spitting dorado tracks.

Forgive music

— The End —