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Let’s defy these scientific rules for a minute
And immobilize this systematic reality.
Lets make our own personal route
Towards a surreal land, just like fantasy

A place where i could stretch my arm and grab a star
A place where you could sit by my side, holding a jar.

Where we could put them in jar and keep it under the moon.
Then listen to their sweet, soothing and mellow tune.

Where we could make anything from their glowing dust.
Or use them to fullfil our wishes, if we must.

A place where we could be together for *****.
Only if we could defy scientific rules for once.
The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.
How many colours fit in your hand?
Is this a question you'd understand?
How many palm trees obey your command?
Unless you are dreaming, I'd dare to say none.

How can a word go swimming in land?
That makes less sense than a musicless band.
Lightly drawn bridges, which taste naught but bland.
Don't trust your own words, unless they are fun.

A desert will bake you with deafening sand,
As much as a cloud will make you less tanned.
That's more than a cockroach could ever withstand.
The words on your tongue would melt in the sun.
dr Nov 1
Yon yonder Sick-a-More
**** stack smoke,
And barrels of gunpowder
Runny noses.

Ice-cream sundaes
In the barber’s Electric chair.
And being ready for death,
Stuck up in your head
With terrible company;
The ghosts of ******* past.
Commune with liqueur demons
And toast to mediocre health.

Send letters to prisoners
And sorrow slaves,
Stuck between the walls.
Sleep well knowing you’re
Making no difference whatsoever,
Cook your barbeque in
Icelandic winter abyss.
dr Nov 1
Joseph spends forty
minutes in the shower,
And cleans every pore
in his body personally.
Individually and says
The Rosary for every
Hair he pulls.

“What’s the point” he sighs.
There is cold water pouring
From the tap and cooling his toes,
And the scalding rain soothes his scalp.
At least it’s not blood this time,
and he looks at his arm to make sure it’s not.
The window is wide open,
and there is a gang of magpies spying in.
They are there for the Rosary,
everyone knows magpies don’t Sin.
dr Nov 1
“Maybe the only way for ghosts to get peace
is for them to realise they’re not dead.
They don’t exist, because we don’t exist.
If we exist, so do they.”
Ghost… Ghouls…Goblins and Brits.
Keep your nits in your soup.
******* back to Dover,
And snort chalk and call it happiness.
Read from Roman fantasy,
And Saxon fairy tales.
Stun Huns soaked in Blood,
And making the most
Of a handful of braincells.
Bitter strawberry cider and **** pastries.
RAF yourself into the Channel,
And do the world a favour.
The sun and its veil drags along the humdrum path, like an old dog’s broken tooth, lodging itself into a decrepit chair. Right up its ****; where it belongs and longs to be loved. It suffocates, coagulates, and discombobulates the bowery citizens within the pearl atolls. By the rims of the gates, Moses receives ******* while a sojourning sheik blasts the radio. Meanwhile, the teats of Atlas are duly pounded as the mortals are aroused and grounded. Never beholden to ecumenist beauty, life lives on, defying questions. It festoons its lexicon of self-defeat and the synonyms that we waste sun on; A halcyon is redacted before long. I am left at the teeth of a sycophant and a broad-shouldered man who I adore in dangerous elan. Epigrams foist themselves upon the masts, the masts that sail us o’er the soot of the ocean, and land us flippantly onto the crystalline concentration line which is a-gaping wide.
The orifice of a primordial awaits us.
Imanuel Baca Oct 22
I try to grasp.
It slips away
I give up it wrath
It's back to stay

So it seems that I only dream
The more I let go the easier it becomes
I shed my skin a snake
I go for a swim in a lake of gold
What are these feelings I cant shake
Are these lies I have been told?
I am tender, I want to awake
In this life I have always been old
So I let my heart of hearts unfold
Things can be to illusive to explain properly, so we are forced to use pose and metaphor.
Beings with trunks for ears, duct tape for eyes, and nozzles for digits…… Oh, what horror is this? I do not dream of the world anymore, just the rotten carcass of my amygdala. Suchasmall space to wade through…. so cold, yes? Coconuts falling down pants, with pinstriped sections separated by a ragged burlap fur. Googly eyes, slick and shiny, privy in decadence. A skinned raccoon goes soulless in splendour as it receives ******* from a malnourished Mickey Mouse. Corkscrews enter the ears.
“Oh **** yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
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