I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.

Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.

He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.

But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****.

Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.

Love is deceiving: that it can put you into a chaotic hurricane of misfortune yet you will keep being so blindly lucky.

Love is manipulating: that sometimes it becomes an ultimate tool for a person to politically dominates you. It mops your own self-authority.

You'll eventually become controlled. You'll be owned, you'll be toyed, that the presence of yourself means nothing more than just a belonging brought along.

Love is voracious: that it always makes you so greedy for affection, and craving more than just attention.

As the things don't go straight forward with your wish, and you don't get what you hardly need, you'll be left suffocated. You'll gamble your very lack of happiness only to be evaporated.

Love is lonesome: that every night, it will let you so sleepless, envisioning to a constant uncertainty which frustrates you to the utmost.

There will always be a constant battle in your mind that will dig the hollow so deep beyond the control. You'll soon use to the clattering cries and more simultaneous tears evoked.

But the good thing, it will sharp your melancholic soul elegantly: so exquisite that you'll paint your feelings in a train full of letters.

You'll possess the ability to bewitch gibberish into an excruciating enchantment for the woeful lovers. Those are the one whose joy are scattered to a blow of ashes.

- April, 24 2018, 02:23 AM.

Everything is everything
and only nothing happens without a reason.
If I was to say more, it'll probably be GIBBERISH.

wardens trying to catch the running thoughts… here and there, snakes become ladders.

jailbirds of a different kind, pink and yellow trunks, see-through vests. they're way too many, they can't be numbered.

parole impossible, behaviour mad… drinking spirits and each other, in equal parts. pink dogs with zebra tails, fetching make-believe bones lost amidst psychedelic sunflowers.

thoughts helter skelter, in the tiny vastness, where only grey matters. bright flashes creep in at the bat of an eye, the hazy images of the outside world.

'em wardens are back, logic loaded in their guns. six rounds, a million too few… but now the dogs found something to chew!

A trio of compound realms I own:
A smile, a rainbow and unknown.
May I bake them? Fetch a pie
Of fruitful colours? Why
Won't it abound with the sky?

A trio of compound selves I bear.
Each dwells without and within.

Crotchety old men reading year-old,
Newspapers and drinking year-old milk,
Suddenly assailed me for some frothy beer;
Jeering I jest that they don't look their best,
Wearing polka dot vests with feathered *******.
(Get those naughty thoughts out your noggins)

Speaking of noggin, I was jogging
With a porch light up Johnson's Hill,
And a dog dug a jig from a neon sign,
That had velvet written on it,
From a German gnome,
Born from a dwarf!
What a lucky find!

I'll index it next to the index finger,
But first I'll clean it with Windex.

Sleep? Sle3p? Sl33p?

A fiddle playing maid wearing a clown outfit
Challenged me to a game of black jack
Where the stakes were steaks
A t-bone I did desire
But the iced tea was spilled
How rude!
So I left the maid for a bell
Trying to get my wonderful meat
But I ended up with bacon
Given from the devil himself

Ignorance is bliss
Yet I must admit
Arrogance kisses
Much sweeter indeed

Like a sweater in snow
Your mother is cold
The pattern is checker
Move to New Mexico

The antelope of old
Yet stories seen
On a blanket bold
In yellow and red

An apple fell from a tree
As I tried to breathe
The color violet
Which I thought was brilliant
But it filled me with rabbits
Who wanted some porridge
From this refrigerator door
Which I meant to plant in my living room
So I could marry my little loving broom
Which was pink and red and dusty
Like a flowing dove in the sky
Flittering bright and high
Only we live to sleep
In bathtubs of clay
Which I'm okay
As they are deep