"automating" poems
*i vent, i'm sure you heard of the invention known as the ventilator... it's like a lung-clone-subservient of a "nanny quality" of automating the words: breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... it precursors the in and outsources the *out, there's a cult-like-scheme involving the use of... the stated tools... worthy of a suggestion that epitomises August as the month of harvest - i.e. the sun finally sets to auburn crops and **** me, isn't the bread rightly puffy?! toad-squidgy aye aye? go on, give us a burping caricature of a squeeze!*
imagine uttering the words:
i hope your mother lies
eternally run-sacked with hopes
of former ****** glory,
***** bleeding,
as if a Mongolian horde just passed
her with a glorious encore of
clapping to match...
because that's what i assert
as been done to my mother,
you don't even understand the verb
or adjective or conjunction behind
the noun.... after all, you're an African
Muslim and a pyramid builder,
a *******
jaded jock-strap and gag's
worth of you the Ben & Jerry...
praise the Koran
but don't understand that behind
each noun there's a collective grammatical
structure, **** you English political correctness,
**** you! **** YOU! have your Reagent's Street
and Oxford Street, have 'em!
behind the noun all grammatical categories
follow suite... universal noun, what category
for the particular? ape transforms into apish,
or Quasimodo or ~ape, nouns are units,
like centimetres, forget the other things, unless you:
let the shoppers drop dead like flies!
but imagine saying the words:
i hope your mother gets gang-raped by
an equivalent of a Mongolian horde;
yep, Mongolian necrophilia.
you said it to my mother, and i'm mourning,
alive, and counting.... once more... so **** you*!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
As the light slowly etches away the night,
The colours slowly pop up, bold and bright.
They glisten as they finally reach out to their life source,
And suddenly life's denied of any remorse.
The gods have frilled their favorite planet for the grand opening of the year,
A cosmic intervention, a dimension of no fear.
And the trees rejoice, as they humbly accept the gift heavens bring.
And the trees rejoice, as it is the time of the venutian spring.
The planet begins to scorch as the mighty sun brings forth his might,
A new world is put in order, the day shines with the brightest light.
And the nights are shorter, who would want to sleep?
The season is young, brimming, tender and ready to reap.
The aura blankets the lonely planet, a radiance of sheer power,
Automating anything and everything that makes worlds what they are.
And the children rejoice, as they live their childhood like no one shall ever.
And the children rejoice, as it is the time of the mercurial summer.
The third quarter commences, the sun slowly begins to shy away,
The lethargy sets in, the rustling of the leaves fills the empty voids of the day.
What hath this sound done to the mighty Helios, for him to curtail his blazing steeds?
Winds humming, forcing the flame to succumb to their needs.
Orange and gold strewn on the open land, opens the gateway to a world azure.
Dusk dominates this time of the year.
And the winds rejoice, as they blow coupled with the soft rustling percussion.
And the winds rejoice, as it is the time of the erisian autumn.
The year opens to its close, a cloud shedding white precipitate,
has opened itself to the world in which people relate.
A blanket of frost covers all, a preservative by all means.
Few think of this as a time of redeem.
A solitary tree stands, below it, the dead memories of the yester seasons.
The night overpowers the day, rest need not need reason.
And the world rejoices, as it braces itself for the forthcoming year.
And the world rejoices, as it is the time of the martian winter.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC