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The writer is                                                               bound by the Oedipus                                           cauldron stewing          can't relax                           --all women are mine--                                                                  but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.                      But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia                --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.                               Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars                                                          --our fathers,                               and the void of space,                                                      --our mother's womb. the writer                                              was busy staring at the girls that walked by                                         ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.                 The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,    or they would be.                                Their dreams had dirt in the mud,                 they walked upon.                Our Woodstock                                                                 is celebrity interviews,                                                                 reservations failing,                                                                 political satires--the last ring of change              sold at five cents a word. Period. the writer                                         says it understands and writes:                       "Sticks shaped from elitism                         rare.                         Usually a vibe too brittle,                         breaking in battle.                         The bass thundered robins.                         The snare's firearm stabled the swift,                         electrifying beat.                         The brass was addiction                         to the crowd's ears.                         All before the elitism was born,                         a symphony was constructed in the drug's head." the writer                                 knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,                   we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:                                "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser                                  waving his gun on TV?                                  While listening to the Beatles, you                                  sit and watch the vagabond cry.                                  He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed                                  in a metal casket.                                  We need a new flame. Those watching TV                                  get your hands out of the basket." the writer walks with grandma Alice by lakes, thrilling dementia "Don't tell me what taurine and caffeine can do to my heart. I can have alligators in my rib meat eating away at bone marrow. High? That's your question? Hi...I am a float in a useless pond bordered by malnourished trees. By the love of hell you better not fertilize those ****** trees because if I die the alligator of my ribs will dine and take your **** girlfriend straight to the vet. I thank you for asking though." the writer misses the syrup in the tree completely I am not your beatnik or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
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Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
When dreams had dirt
The writer is                                                               bound by the Oedipus                                           cauldron stewing          can't relax                           --all women are mine--                                                                  but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.                      But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia                --no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.                               Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars                                                          --our fathers,                               and the void of space,                                                      --our mother's womb. the writer                                              was busy staring at the girls that walked by                                         ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.                 The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,    or they would be.                                Their dreams had dirt in the mud,                 they walked upon.                Our Woodstock                                                                 is celebrity interviews,                                                                 reservations failing,                                                                 political satires--the last ring of change              sold at five cents a word. Period. the writer                                         says it understands and writes:                       "Sticks shaped from elitism                         rare.                         Usually a vibe too brittle,                         breaking in battle.                         The bass thundered robins.                         The snare's firearm stabled the swift,                         electrifying beat.                         The brass was addiction                         to the crowd's ears.                         All before the elitism was born,                         a symphony was constructed in the drug's head." the writer                                 knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,                   we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:                                "Did you hear about the John Lennon poser                                  waving his gun on TV?                                  While listening to the Beatles, you                                  sit and watch the vagabond cry.                                  He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed                                  in a metal casket.                                  We need a new flame. Those watching TV                                  get your hands out of the basket." the writer walks with grandma Alice by lakes, thrilling dementia "Don't tell me what taurine and caffeine can do to my heart. I can have alligators in my rib meat eating away at bone marrow. High? That's your question? Hi...I am a float in a useless pond bordered by malnourished trees. By the love of hell you better not fertilize those ****** trees because if I die the alligator of my ribs will dine and take your **** girlfriend straight to the vet. I thank you for asking though." the writer misses the syrup in the tree completely I am not your beatnik or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
joseph-s-c-pope
Written by
joseph-s-c-pope
American
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
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