Without further ado i offer my literary missives anew fur ye to ponder and brew from meister mwm of his motley crue, whom dwells in a nada very complex edifice which numb burr oof offspring equals deux whereby this spouse i.e me kind of resembles an emu whence money a edified reader considers dis goy wit sum brain cells 2 few chomped on by an carnivorous elder gnu and said two female progeny sired from one ova plus super seminal glue
swimming swiftly via viscous hue genetic heritage comprised predominantly Jew with one late uncle Lou, who himself wed a milch cow, she frequently did moo which found me to rue what comprises reality to be true that all humans originated from the primate zoo.
**** Sapiens Sale hums lot witnessed vicious thermal winds that blew thick mass of cremated ashes across rubble strewn, and severely cratered landscape!
The devil made mince meat as like one huge lumbering ogre and grim reaper rolled up into one not so jolly green giant did slay good will to all men, and spat out pox with an emphatic nay triumphing over godly salvation using eponymous accursed pitchfork made merry and rolled in the hay
simultaneously sneering out in delight at wanton death and decay whereby civilization forever mutilated perforated said spindled and inappropriately sensually fondled world wide web structure where once proud arm strong spikes radiated now sundered in total chaotic disarray!
I’m like the Midwest weather forecast. I’m stuck in summer. I hate the dead of winter. It rains in the spring. Overall, fall is the ******* worst. It’s autumn's curse. All I see are dead leaves, falling to the floor. Piled in the corners, they’re sticking to my rake. It’s kind of overwhelming. I really cannot focus, when all these leaves are here. I wish I could switch gears, to get rid of all this fear. The leaves they're flying instead of falling. I guess this is the part that's beautiful, the magical somewhere in between. Perhaps falling isn't the ******* worst. It’s that special time between the winter and autumn, when it’s sometimes snowing, and there’s no sunshine to come leaking through. The clouds are thick at this time.
I wrote five short poems over the course of the months April 2015 to February 2016. This is what I put together in chronological order.
one of the first times we talked there was a thunderstorm going on at your end, all the way on the other side of the world (or so it seemed).
perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts -- that i would become enthralled by you, just as i am by thunderstorms, and that you, the storm itself, would wreak beautiful havoc upon all that i was and change me forever.
i was oblivious: unknowing of the fact that soon i would be in the eye of the storm -- a ship being beaten down by your catastrophic flashes of blinding lightning and the roaring waves you would leave behind.
perhaps i should've taken it as a warning of sorts. but i didn't. i was blinded by the serenity that so often comes before chaos.
the calm before the storm, if you will.
but like i said, i am enthralled by thunderstorms, so maybe that is why, even after the calm ended, i still loved every second of our twisted downpour and didn't so much mind the empty hull i'd become.
my darling -- you were the storm and i was the ship that slowly burned with every strike of lightning.
quickly positing this with horrible wifi hello. i also hate the ending of this poem but I'm too lazy to change it.
With passing days queued up for the forecast foreseeable Tuck into the routines' reserves deplete when permissible
Shot through the feet with what we can't forget run on through the limp past the end of the sentence and sit In the glow remain undeveloped stay unreconstructed drop the curtain on scenes interrupted
Dot your i's with up-slanted slash marks sparks fill my eyes when I read through your retorts Blank page. Blank page. A waltz through a minefield reeling jigs over headstones when digging through plain white lines