Another night of television hell I was in the middle of a hell of a block.
And withoout the funds my usal cure of hookers and *******  wasnt a open
road so to speak.

I was lost I wondred the streets like  ****** in need of a john.
When through the darkness it appearded a well lit haven in the middle of
a thoughtless storm.

The cinema cafe drinks and films  hmm from looking at the marquee seems
there wasnt much to choose from .
It read like a preschooler had puked apon the board.

There were sequels, and prequels,  gay vampires that walked around in the day,
Weirdos who flew around on broom sticks and loads of treenage **** minus the ****.
Dear lord! I had to get to the bottom of this problem.

The pimple faced kid at the booth asked me in a squeeky yet firm semi manly
voice can I help you sir?
Yes my dear crater face whats with this **** you call films here ?
Umm I dont make em sir there just whats popular.

The greezy faced hampster had a good point in what he said that is.
cause other than that I had no clue what he was working with really what do you think
I am some kinda pervert?

Let me ask you something do you like this **** you sell tickets to?
**** no dude its garbage for halfwits and retards  and some people from Canada.
Who the hell wants to see that **** from twilight  play snow white?
Let me ask is that a adult film?
Duh no ******* we dont show thoose here.

Would you know were I could see thoose films?
Im doing some umm research on human sexulality  it involves alotta big words
which i cant spell so i'll spare you the details  just point me in the right direction
and nobody gets hurt.

Dude they havent shown thoose kinda movies in theaters for years.
Oh yeah and theres this thing called the internet once is way better than writting on your
cave walls.
Kids there really great *******.

After some back in fourth who gives a **** or really reads this ***** banter.
The man with the pizza face finally hit his limit.
Look *******!
I dont make the **** ,I dont watch the ****!
If you gotta problem take it up with the studio exects in Hollywood.

You gotta point there sparky give me your keys!
What! No.
Give me your keys or else.
Or else what grandpa  your gonna hit me with your walker.

No you silly *******.
Or else I'll shoot you.
Ya see young man that should wear a iron mask.
You may have a I Phone
But I have a handgun  and  that always wins the debate no hand em over.

After a brief moment of the little ******* ***** crying and begging for me not to **** him.
Really he watched to many TV shows I wasnt gonna **** him besides.
Im allergic to prison and it wasnt even a real gun what a *******.

I was off in my borrowed car  to the land of bad ideas and great **** jobs.
A place more fake than barbies dream home minus that dickless tool she always
hung out with  not that I played with Barbie's but she does have some really kickarse *******
and im a big fan of ******* hell what great writer isnt?

It was a drive that seemed to take forever  but finally i pulled up to the front gate
of Warner Brothers studios.
The little weird looking gate keeper looked at me and said .
can I help you sir.

Yes please direct me to your leader strange gaurd troll.
Uhh sir this is a closed lot only people with passes can enter.
Well what if i know the secret word?

Who told you about the secret word?
I had him with that one.
These Hollyweird vampires couldnt have enough brain power to
keep some pass on them.
Okay whats the secret word sir?

I had to think deep and from such a shallow mind that was asking alot.
What could it be it had to be something that rang true like snorting a line of
coke of Katy Perry's  ***'s.

Dear lord I had it.

Brad Pitt ***** donkey *****.

The man looked at me in utter shock  I wasnt sure if he was gonna let me pass
or try to pull me out my slightly worn odd smelling borrowed car.
Alright sir it's lot 69 hahaha  yeah I know im demented.

Right next to the lot there filming Winds Of Change **** The Musical!
Staring Johnny Depp and Bogo the ***** chimp.
****** i wish i wasnt busy  that chimp seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders.
Well when he wasnt jerking off and eating bannans while throwing his poo.
What a talent indeed.

I found myself in the studio people running every which a way.
It was total confussion   seemd like no one had a clue what the hell they were doing.
Hey ******* shouted some weird little man in a chair who the **** are you!?.

The little red haired man must truely be dellusional.
How could someone not know Gonzo?
Well sir just who the **** are you? I replied.

Well im Ron ******* Howard *****!
Hmm never herd of you are you a director or something?
What!!!
Ever hear of Andy Griffith  or Happy Days?
Oh yeah your that little dork that hung out with that cop yeah what a snitch.
I was playing his son *******.

Dam well seems this ginger finally explained to me why that man always had him around
it all makes sense now i just thought he was some kinda pervert.
Course seems like he had picked up some bad habbits from that Fonzie guy
never trust a man who calls the restroom his office but what a man does with
another man in a ***** restroom for plesure or profit is his own bussiness.

Look *******  what the hell do ya want?
Lets start with a gallon's of nothern light maybe some top shelf hookers some good music.
Maybe a couple hits of some lets say nose candy maybe turn off the lights and see what happens.
Im just saying sometimes ya gotta let nature take it's drug filled course.

Im not talking bout from life dip **** i mean what the hell are you doing here?
Oh **** sorry there  carrot top.
I wanna see the person in charge that green lights all this remake **** you souless
morons put out and call entertainment.

The little red haired devil was silent as he explained to me no one ever saw the
studio head it was like meeting Santa Claus or ****** or being in the pressence of a unicorn
really whats the diffrence.

He warned me of the dangers of meeting such a great mind yet like I do with
most people I simply shook me head and agreed much like i do with
women im trying to sleep with duh like I care about her tweenty seven cats.

Finally after learning I wasnt taking no for a answer he lead me to a room
And in this room was a screen and apon the screen appread a face.
Who dare question the mighty head of the film studio!!

The voice was loud  still it had that comfoting quallity that you just have to love in
a windbag *******.
Umm me.

You well who the hell are you?
Duh ******* im the long winded ******* writting the story.
Oh well what the **** do you want?

Sir I wanna know what the hell's wrong with you people.
Look im a drunk but i could never be drunk enough to pay a fortune to watch half the **** you call entertainment between remakes and films based on gay *** stories about vampires
and dudes who run around the woods calling themselves werewolves.

You mean you actully saw twilight?
The voice asked me on the verge of laughter.
Duh i see a bunch of hot chicks  going anywhere im following without asking
much like the mindless drones that watch that ****.

Sir your a sad sad man.
The strange face on the screen vanished out from the curtan appeared
what looked like *** it was Bugs Bunny !!

Bug's!  
What's up gonz?
****** i always knew you were real much like Fergie and spanish fly.

Gonzo i know half this **** ***** but its because mindless idiots love studip ****.
Look you were once a popular writer and you cant even spell.
Ouch now go ahead mighty furry samuri.

Ya see whatever makes money we put out and really stupid young girls much like your teenage
wife love that **** and being perverts like yourself wanna get laid you'll take them to that ****.
Bugs are you saying it's all about money?

No **** *******.

We talked drank watched backroom casting couch tapes of early starlets like
Harrison Ford no wonder he was so good with that whip.

It was magic minus the  money loving **** mouse that'll sue your ***.
Bugs I gotta ask you a deep question?
Shoot there Gonz .
Is Mickey really just a cross dresser calling himself Minnie?

You are messed up in so many ways Gonz.
We laughed swapped ***** stories  like the time Bugs slipped
Daisy some ****** and got a ******* in the magic castle  while goofy watched.

What the **** is Goofy?

Gonz .
My furry amigo said to **** if I know.

Untill next time kids stay crazy

And remember if you wish apon a star  ya better make sure to whom thoose copy rights
belong to truley are.
Cause thoose rich ******* will sue your *** .

Cheers

                               FIN?

Knotts Island  10:oo pm wedsday Feb  9   2011

It was like any other night spent at the doctors office slash
Dr Jerry's trailer.
Drink fine deep conversation about world events and *******.

I had went to the porch for some  introspection  and to take a ****.
Dear Lord Man!
What I saw was proof i had done way to many drugs and slipped yet into another rambling state of Gonzo.

White  powder covered the ground  it was a gift from Jesus or Elvis really   whats the diffrence?
Hunk a hunk burning  clap  it was pouring ******* from the sky !
I burst through the door like Lindsy Lohan fresh outta rehab

Jerry !  
Gonzo!  
Jerry!
Gonzo!
What are we yelling about Jerry?

I dont know but zip your pants up.
I know your a **** but I dont need to see it as proof.
Jerry a doctor a fellow brother of Gonzo
and true deep thinker.

****** man what was i gonna say i really need to lay off
the drink *******  Dr Pepper.
Well smack my **** and paint me purple and sell me to the Canadians.
dont ask.

Jerry good lord man look  outside its a true miricle.
Now only if it would rain strippers and wild turkey.
That would really be proof the easter bunny existed!

Jerry shaking his head for he knew his drugged out mental asylum bound  friend with a heart of gold or at least bronz  needed some alone
time in a padded cell looked out the window.

See i told you !
It's ******* snow Gonz ya *****.
snow what the hell's that I thought to myself while speaking
out load on a poetry site   where people think what the **** is wrong with him.

****** I should go outside more than once a year.
these seasons really throw me off like Skeeter  on
a cold night.
****** i told you  not untill you pay for last time ******!

She was a true lady just wish she took credit.
After a breif explanation time travel and where babies come from.
Dr Jerry returned to his favorite hobby surffing facebook
for underage *****  hey dont judge  how do ya think i met my wife?

Yeah man look at this one amigo sent me a friends request.
Jerry showed me a pic of a hot looking chick
and being she was good looking and talking to Jerry ment either
two things.

One the Gonzo On facebook page was down due to such high traffic
cause im super awsome.
Dork  you got like 14 friends.
Jerry went back to looking at the computer screen.
ha ha ha ha ha *** not funny.
Cyberperve!
I know you are but what am I?!

****** man he always get's me with his mature 40 something living
in his grandmas back yard  logic oh snap girlfriend.

Or Two  this little monkey  was really a ****** or a mormon
whats  the diffrence but enough with the foreplay children.
Jerry sat deep in thought and four **** hits and ten shots of turkey later sat the puzzled.

Amigo what do i say to break the ice?

The lights dimmed  a voice from the heavens spoke or New Jersy
John Tesh  apeared from the closet  ****** man i thought i herd really boring music from there i thought the rat poisen would get him for sure.      
    
When thought's are blured and both hands are busy.
When you just cant seem to find the words to break the
ice to that hot little hamster across the net,

Take that extension cord from around your neck and get
head out the oven dam you Slyvia Plath.
Just call dah da da dah da or however it ****** goes
sorry i dont watch   super hero movies although
I need a pair of thoose tights.
IT'S A JOB FOR GONZO.

Move aside silly girl I'll break the ice for you!
Umm  no Gonz thats okay Jerry replyed in that no
but it means  yes seductive five packs of cigs a day
sandpaper voice of his.

Trust me Jerry  Im a writer and i know how to
talk to the ladies  yes my friend how they do love Gonzo
Oh they pull out there pepper spray fire there guns
but inside they have a thirst for crazy.

No Gonz it's okay.
Dont mention it Jerry.
Gonz !
Jerry !
Gonz!
Jerry!
What the **** were we talking about and why the ****
are you in my lap!
Good question my friend but least your happy to see me.

At the keys the master or insane half wit began his
works of geinus this would break the ice for sure!

Dear Sarah

Wow all I can say is me likey.
And may I say that sweater really brings out your *******.
We should get togather and  talk  bout  things
while naked in bed to bare are souls.

Something about me.
My name is Jerry im  superbadass hells yeah.
I like drinking other peoples beer i can bench like a
thousand pounds.

I have a big   tv. What get your mind outta the gutter!
Lets drop the small talk you know ya want it why fight it.
Let that inner tigress out meow kitty  
Lets get naugthy and do things to make us both
purr in the litter box.

Kisses Dr Jerry   giggles and a gay *** emicon,
xoxoxo.

Yeah I know what your saying no wonder im such a ****.
And no wonder i have to pay for *** and im always alone.

After some mock tears and a snuggle   we waited for I know a
turned on little nymphs  reply.

Hey Kids it's  time to play are favorite snow game.
car surffing  in the blizzard cause im a drunken idiot
okay that kinda hurt.

Driving around the mean streets of KI  hopping officer
Rutherford was off duty or searching some drunk woman
looking for  some goodies hey I wonder where my sister is?

We at the rip roaring speed of 10 miles a hour What ?!
Hey saftey first that and the snow made it really hard for Jerry to hold onto the roof and pass the bottle.

We laughed we cried we lit are farts and made a beautiful
snow sculpture of two snow people getting freaky right in the middle of the road  hey kids blame it on the Beatles.

After we took out a few mail boxes stole a few garden gnomes
And taught a jaded soul how to love agian  we were
back at the office slash trailer in jerry's grandmas backyard
yes to think he's really come a long way since the tent.

By the warmth of the fire  music and fine drink to
match are deep conversation.

Hey dude ya think think that extenze stuff really works?
And if so if you took a lifetime supply  could you answer the door without getting outta bed?.      
        
The knock at the door was sudden.
****** man I knew it! Snow monkeys hide the
penut butter  and  put on some Kenny G!
Hey **** Kenny G  
Dam you John Tesh Go back into the closet where you belong!

Jerry looked at me as he usally does.
Like this ******* really needs some shock treatment.
Talk about a charge.

After Jerry assured me it wasnt the artic monkey's come to take there revenge   and promised to read me a bed time story what!
I have a inner child oh was starved of kickass stories.
Like Jack And The Beanstalk ,Catcher And The Rye,Or Debbie Does Dallas.

I opened the door to see a  large angry looking man
with a axe in his hand hmm dam lumber jacks  there always
on the job.

Are you the perve that wrote my 13 year old daughter that perverted
email on facebook?

Oh no im Gonzo im the other pervert who writes really long rambling stories on a a poetry website that arent really poetry
or very good,And drinks alot and doesnt make much sense

Yet always bring a laugh to demented people across the globe
cause yeah im super bad ***...

The man stood unfazed gritting his teeeth *******
me with his eyes hey it's cold okay.

Uhh no sir that's the perve your looking for over there
looking at your daughters pics hey ****** man we have
company  stop that.

I made my exit to the sound of screams it was like
a pit bull was latched onto a girl scout the agony    
Well looks like things were off to a good start Jerry was already meeting Sarahs  parent.

No need to thank me  Jerry
Remember kids if ya need a little help in time of need.
Look no further than Gonzo.

Slower than a fast moving virus.
He can leap small dwarfs and some short big girls in a single bound
kinda.

Gonzo fly's  of into the night in a epic soon to be forgotten.
B movie moment.
Stay Crazy.

Look Im flying.  **** tree!

Splat , Crash, Boom  Ouch Shitfire And Flying Monkeys
Next time I'll take a cab.

Adios Amigo's

The bottles were scattred monuments to beaten livers and bad decisions.
I awoke like any other morning okay afternoon hungover and to void of ***** to deal with
hampsters or flying monkeys .

The agony was what I was used to but the ringing in my head was altogather a diffrent matter.
it grew louder that constant annoying ring and to my suprize much like the voices in my head after my
usal sixpack and half pint of Wild Turkey it was still there.

It rang and rang and caused such a clatter I had to finally get up off my **** and see what the **** was the matter.
I opened the door to the pub to be met by a bright light jesus christ it was the rapture or one of thoose other
big hippie rock festivals dam you  lalapalooza!

But it was just then I remebred to put on my sunglasses.
That huge annoying lightbulb was a cruel ***** indeed.
Now in the realm of what most called the outdoors the noise was clear and to my suprize it was some
strangley dressed ****** slash recruiter for the Forein Legion or Salvation Army really whats the diffrence
ya see one fashion cult ya seen em all ohh snap!


The woman kept ringing the bell as if in some weird trance and like some strange witch she stood by a kettle
dear Lord! what if she was putting a curse on us all.

Hello sir care to make a donation?
It seems I could pay to keep the witch at bay why hadnt i thought of this scheme myself.
In a slurred voice i spoke to the witch in her native tongue most people call it english.
For ?
I said in a naughty school girl way inwhich a ***** ses to the teacher when she wants good grades
or a ride home with a happy ending.

It's to help the needy on Christmas.  
It seesm the pagan was raising funds for one of her bizzar rituals.
being the reporter with the heart of gold and not grain of sense I asked her to speak of this
strange custom.

It seems as though her good had had one to many and made another little hampster
so far this God sounded like someone I could enjoy a drink with.
Then he called on his homeboys to vist the little dude and give him some totally useless
gifts hope they kept the reciets cause ***** that crap give me a gallon of Turkey and a Xbox

She rambled on with her fairy tale and how now people seem to all give things to one another
On this strange holiday .
Boy like that will ever catch on sister .

She jingled her bell as i jumped and screamed like a little girl a very manly little girl may i add
dear lord woman !
That noise you may use your magic to scare other's into paying you but when I pay
a woman it usally ends in *** okay almost always.

She looked at me deepley she must have been undersing me with her eyes i felt so ***** in the right kinda way.
But enough with the foreplay children.
Are you insane?

The witch asked in a angry voice her grip on her bell tighten she spoke again.
get outta here  you ******.
Yeah i know she was totally into me.

Witch I know you've cast a spell on me so why toil with your silly made up holiday scheme.
Of all the pubs you could have decided to hook in front of you picked the home of
Hello's favorite guilty pleasure .
I say we cut through this silly spell  **** and go into the bar and i give you the most forgetable experience of your life.
Hey as long as im happy thats all that counts kids.

She paused caught deep in the moment then asked whats Hello?
Oh that was a site that used to be really fun and now really isnt.
She paused yet again pulling in her magic purse often used by witches
and candy **** singers like Justin Bieber!

She pulled from it some magic spray that blinded me.
the pain was terrible i herd her blow a whistle  lucky whistle.
Calling her warlocks who I feared were powerful and *****.

Soon I  found myself locked in a dungeon with other strange people all under spells.
there was a man dressed as a pagan God calling himself Santa
Seems he liked to play with his candy cane in public.
Yeah who doesnt?

The days passed and i was put through a horrible torture worse than having
to watch the O network or listening to Justin Beiber that musiacal ****.
I went days without  my ***** i was put into a strange state called sober.

Finally the curse was lifted as the guard showed me out he informed me
it was cause it was Christmas .
Dear lord !
The witch had  cast her spell over the world.

So as I sit in the confines of my Pub whiskey flowing like water.
I've learned beware of this bell ringing witch and her tales of strange Gods
and give or fall victem to her charms as did I.

Untill next time stay crazy hampsters.

Do you ever feel closed?
Do you ever wonder what’s out there?
Or you are just stuck on who and why and where?
You swallow it all, are you ever opposed?
Does it scare you when you are exposed?

Do you lust for the things behind the wall?
Do you ever cry down and pray,
that you may see more, atleast for a day?
Can you stand alone, or you are just somebody’s thrall?
Can you grasp the thing, that you are small?

Can you imagine nothing?
Do you have a hole that needs to be filled?
What will be of you if in this instant you are killed?
Do you ever feel the insides of your skull buzzing?
Do you think salvation lies in the den of our loving?

What is your purpose, what are you for?
Did ever, that question took your breath?
Is there a diffrence between life and death?
Did you ever want to break out and explore?
Is there a thing in your life that you want to adore?

At the thought of these questions I shake to the bone.
My puzzled desires to know can never sit on a chair.
I need them satisfied like I need air.
I’m just a thing that wants all sides to be shown.
I just want to get a scope to the unknown.

Arms, legs, body and head,
you can not deny it,
we are just a plague widespread.
Across me sits this smelly man,
I see in him nothing but an orangutan.
I look at his face, look at his hands,
there is nothing more than a monkey in pants.
I try to think of how does he think,
but what do I know;
I’m written by the same ink.
Years and years, nothing but a lion’s purse,
now seconds passed,
we think we are masters of the universe.
A load of meat floating on a rock,
I guess we are lucky,
but we haven’t even learned to walk.
We hope and dream our dreams,
we want to achieve,
but everything is wrong when it’s not how it seems.
Everyone is a god, everyone is supreme;
When their belly is full,
everyone lives in his own dream.
But take away the feast,
get in their way;
Man becomes the most savage of beast.
We haven’t lost that jungle sense,
no diffrent than animals,
our population is just more dense.
But I guess we are noble in a way,
that’s the greatest irony of all;
Because I know how to say what I can say.
Ape does not know that he is ape,
he does not know the diffrence between an apple and a grape.
He does not even know if his own kin he rapes;
but for **** sure we should know,
that we are nothing but the next-level apes.

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

OUR DIFFRENCE IS NOW      INCREASING,
AND THOSE TENDER EMOTIONS
FREEZING !!

For some reason untold
I feel nothing when I write these words
They used to be my refuge
When the world was crashing down
Yet, for some reason
They don't mean so much now

For some reason
I read the things
That pours from another's heart
How these words are keeping them
From being torn apart

For some reason
I wanna let it go
what was its meaning?
I no longer know
For some reason
I can't understand
My poetry dosen't mean...
Anything

I figure
What's the point
If my words
No longer
Want to be heard

I'll still write
I just won't share
It won't make the diffrence I always dreamed
If no one cares

For some reason
I think it's time
To give up my rhymes
Set down the pen
And when I pick it up again....
Maybe they'll listen

Never let the voice that whispers softly in your ear .
Dictate the direction of your soul.
As in his embrace you find passion but do you know truth?

Make no diffrence between the two.
For a fools logic often allows passion to blur the reallity .

For in blood promises writen agreements seem easy till the price need be paid.

Locked doors will not shield you from a end simply create your tomb .
On full moons and othet dark ocassions often there is light even within the darkness.

Did the promise not live up to the truth my dear.
Did that temptation just seem to sweet to deni .
We can ignore are nature but we are carnal animals just the same.

Death finds us empty as alone we must enter to whatever may be .
Never make promises your not willing to keep.


And so in your demise the whispers softly as they were spoken from a forgotten lovers release .
Were still lies just the same.

There is a room
In a small highschool

Where the teenage
Heart aches
Came to die

On a couch where
the poets
came to lie

And contemplate
The diffrence
between dying
and suicide

While the future
Directors
organized

Asking whether
she was ugly enough
to be beautifully alive

Or just dead inside

Such a place
Such Liberty

Watch your children

For in this
On the couch where
the poets came to lie

and the directors
conversed

in the small highschool

There
They learned what it feels
Like to be  alive

you said i love you i said it to the only diffrence is i didnt lie to you .

All around the world there's no diffrence in love,
a picture w draw with our thinkings,
have to fill colours of lover's likings,
and which is marked by a swet smile and a tight hug,
which helps to come out when situations are struck,
and it take away th stress,
which wakeup the happiness,
a beautiful journey having bright but daring paths,
which both have to come as the life long they last's,
it's not a spacebound,
it's a temple in which calmness and satisfaction is all around,
and a happy ending is left behind,
when a unbreakable we find,
like all things we see in space and wonder,
similar to it can make disaster many times more than a bundle of thunder,
it comes as the sunlight,
but never left our heart untill we fought our life's last fight,
but it brokes,
it break all the limitatoins feeling's  and hopes..

My past confronts me still it was a mistake i will never make again.

I moved on from her but i may have found another but the diffrence i that i still care about the other but i

am not gonna wait for something i cant attain  my  feelings are minor i just want to live life when in

general everybody's time comes sometime  i just want to have something that is gonna heal me up 100%  

Soul searching is one thing i have done for ever because i know what IT is nothing more than to hold me

back because i admit i am not the guy  you expect to be there  because you see the one flaw is my gain.

I am gonna be the guy who succeeds i am the guy who is always over looked then i just wait for a

A good thing in my life  is not someone it is me being happy nothing more as much as i want someone

to care about me   i can only hope...

To taste the red burst of rippened tomatoes
that catch a summer's glee whose
shouts run down airconditioned malls of daffodils
to reach butterscotch ends

To catch naive dewdrops on their final wave
-- gleeful regardless of their fleeting demise
on leaffy budettes as they hitchhike on blushing shins
that touch for just a second

To receive the cricket's call
and hang on their every word like
how the stars do on the night sky velvet
hung taut to stop the dreamer's upward freefall

To reverbrate down hymns
and ***** pipes whose rust subdued
by caramel oaken spirits and
cigars rolled with rebellion

To watch the twinkle of eyes
that unroll before me cinemated
like the rhythmic  popping of corn seeds
and the anticipation of childlike hands

To surf the last yawn and sigh
whose ebb and flow crash on
pristine beds -- that soothes and prickles the ears
where the mind remains calm and restless

To sit with 4am and drink
tea or coffee (whichever it desires)
and have hours of conversation before
its teary depature

To the pilgrims' call of the first train
The satisfaction of staying vigil
simmers in the insomniac's stovetop
that seems to be low on gas

The need of slumber seems trivial at most
for dreaming has never known the diffrence
between being awake or asleep
or could this just be my mind that flurries
like jackrabbit thumps and heffalump nightmares
and honey dripping down my boyish chin
and mother napkins and lush lullabies
that whisper "go to sleep"

I believe life is more then survival
I believe the heart is more than a muscle
I believe in hope and freedom
I believe we can know right from wrong
I believe my life can make a diffrence
I believe the message of the cross

  What Do You Believe?

Sitting, where winds cut through my face
No reactions
Where black and heavy rain drenches trees in mudgreen
Only alcohol
Where cups fill with tears and lungs with smoke
Can't breath
My minds in a diffrence place
Where? Between your arms
Only warmth
Where? Between your legs
Only pleasure
Where? Behind your lips
Only truth
Where were you
All the time
Where was your mind
We kissed
Where did you belong
Not there?
Where do I belong
If not here

Alone

Oh god, I can not see.
It’s all starting to get blurry to me.
Face to face, everything’s the same,
it seems I’m out of the game.
There is no diffrence between right and wrong.
This is not the same old happy song.
Walking the street,
don’t know who to greet.
They’re all moving sticks,
as long as m’ clock ticks.
Maybe there’s something good,
’cause I don’t got no more mood.
Lost my inner goose,
got nothing to lose.
All the gates are shut,
working on my gut.
This somehow might be right,
but I’m still losing my sight.

...I tried M&M's that evening, and I dunno, they were tasty.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLII)


If languid hours trick out these wastes til hence
I feel within my bones that April'd hail
Soon, what's the diffrence now in sheer betrayl,
That March looks cold and grey, as if suspense
Was buried in deep slumber like fr'intents
Last May's old tulip bulbs?  Snow's weary scale
Of white is aged; no icicles detail
The silent eaves, and I feel dull sans whence.
Yes, poor man's tea with breakfast was good, fer
All that, but not inspiring.  Sparrows, too,
Cried sweetly as I passed the window, poor
As never feeling like it should be to
Effect worth half a note.  And soup in tour
Now warming as rolls rise, what's left to woo?

07Mar19b

I love chocolate chip cookies. Not for the taste of it, however, more
for the fun. Every chocolate chip cookie is diffrent. Every
bite you take is new. Each bite has a different ratio of
chip to dough. Its like a mini adventure for the mouth. Not only that but depending on where you take a bite makes a diffrence. The edges are crispy and golden, while the center is gooy and warm. You can compare a chocolate cookie to life and find a whole lot of similarities. Life is an adventure. Every moment is diffrent. And you can dictate that moment with your choices. Like you can choose to eat the end with the most chips or dive right into the mouthwatering dough. So yes, I love chocolate chip cookies, but not for their taste.

/it's not that other people are hell... it's that drinking with other people always brings me down to their level of intelligence, one tier above wonton, and one tier below a Piccadilly promenade... alcoholics like leeches... I could never stomach drinking with other people... which is probably a mishandling of a quote by Diogenes... res extensa as proof that res cogitans has been conquered: mxim compediums... people quacking and barking ancient maxims and proverbs for proverbial structures to make, things apparent in the context of: being fashionably attired, to suit the gimmick clock of, choking on regurgitating the same sayings a posteriori, namely,  without a priori foundations... I agree, most maxims are written in an a priori vein... no I don't have the stomach to lie to women, i'd rather cling to celibacy and take to *** with a *******, once every 2 years... what's the problem when otherwise surrogate ******* takes 9 months? i can't imagine other people being hell, other than hell being: drinking with other people... brother Rotgier, "son" of Zygfryd... no wonder my second name is Conrad... such is my sympathy for the western neighbours... somewhere between a msgpie's cackle, and a suffocation from drowning in a droplet of Pomeranian Baltic.

n England I'd be prone to writing
"poems" / bookmarks
while listening to music,
but here, death speaks like
a deafening orchestra
in a drum & bass crescendo
blitz continuum,
tomorrow, another year,
and a decade to boot,
can pass me by,
       and still the remnant statue
beneath the waterfall
winking and giving a sly smile
in the satanic, pagan furor
of mischievousness...
                   long lost this spirit,
withdrawn into blue,
a leisure of humour,
in tact of crows in hadean trenchcoats  
at a funeral itching lessons
in flight and Tom Petty karaoke..
the service quality of penguins,
otherwise in the shadow of my mind,
and impromptu jazzy crisp whips
worthy of deep fried crisp tatties
on the snare...
    and the popsicle before
the scythe harvest...
shame...
     come to think of think of it...
revision:
   HAMMER & THE SCYTHE....
       because let me tell you...
as much difference between
a hammer and a nail,
as there is between a scythe
and a sickle...
   the diffrence in the contort...
throwing a ***** into an Arabian
harem, ensuring the "prophets"
be propped, properly
           "dressed" in ****** trim...
******* hanging off
a guillotine's tailor scoop
to masquerade for a once,
proud, and rummaging
   in fervent heart, odious stag
when staged, counter,
man, cockroach...
                  nature came crushing,
benevolent king in a wheelchair;
******, wielding an atom bomb...
     ßpeschial!
oh well... too bad satanic poetry
had to come across as the sole
mythos of a plagiarism of writing time...
+×÷=...
           cross-eyed...
pointed left, i walked right...
pointed north, i walked south...
i believe in a woman's rights...
hell...
            i believe that women
have the right to decide over their own
bodies, as man had the right
to not pay alimony...
               pro abortion anti alimony...
what?
           because playing Mr. Bean
was going to be easier than playing
Black Adder?
                    
answer is: I don't want to know...
in the ultimatum
I was told to prepare for death,
and surely,  nothing of
the living is ever translated
to wager with the dead...
        a **** every 2 years with
a *******, is still frowned upon,
compared to Elton John
using third party cocktail
surrogates...
                
  because was it ever a party?
    once every 2 years...
     too much ape **** admiration
to translate it back into
an ***** spine swindle,
   plus musical with a vjolin.

and there was a Fiona,
and me working the Edinburgh
***** nightclub
picking empty glasses
from the parkiet...
emptying ****** into
bottles of beer,
getting cornered by skinhead
homos eager for a blow...
Fiona...
    played her the mandolin,
outside her window like
a ******* twised Romeo...
rod steward's maggie may...
then there was Janina,
a love worthy of a canvas,
and a rose... roses bewilder women...
not ough pearl or oyster shells
on them... come next spring...
like any Dutch tulip addiction...
frivolous scoop...
n'ah... this ***** hit the bull's eye
of the bell tower...
ich troje's song
zawsze z tobą chciabym być...
a commoner party song...
became a critique of my skull...
as she deemed it,
the protruding occipital of Africans...
and the squashed, flat "missing"
protrusion was a sign of degeneracy...
even though we shared the same ancestor...
from a pop song...
toward a flat occipital...
wheat-gob bulging jawline
of African Amricans?
they stick corn cobs in there or what?
come on... even Somalia pirates
know the diffrence between not liking
a pleb song, and making comments
about the ******* cranium...
oh wait... and all of this...
in art class...
   so I sketched an answer for her...
her youth...
   eyes with no pupils and no iris,
pure sclera... looking into a mirror
and a babushka...
                if they **** for a reward
of 72 virgins...
              god give me strength...
anticipating 72 doberman
or alsatians, or rottweiler puppies...
       too much fictive love,
when the reality demands...
  once upon a time,
        when a young couple were
to be married,
the parents of both bride
and groom...
    invested in...
    the rewards of retirement,
and the anticipation of reinvigoration
by youth in the format of
grandchildren...
now?
oh you know the subsequent script...
*******.

what do you call a spider without a spiderweb?
    hardly a beef eating tarantula,
came the spider from his web
and scuttled along the pave- like
a missing shoe in a tsunami of
Oxford St. shoppers,
   alternatively (like) a crack-******* addict
i happened to observe, with
a lightbulb in a red phone box
with me standing in it eyeing him
before the hyena dealers buchered
his *** for copper?
    5am London is a twilight zone...
but hell, the tarantula lost
the ability to be arcitecturally
sound, dropped to the floor like
the ape off a tree with a pulsating
lilac mushroom...
     and that psychedelic enzyme
theory of the fungus is...
   wait for it... another way to sieve
through what has the San Francisco
stamp of approval for a Saturday
night in...
                   drinking beer and laughing
at your own jokes in a post-communist
****-show of a "democratised"
society... well... isn't,  exactly to everyone's
taste...
    'cos that: bang bang Nancy riding
horses made of sticks into Santa Fe...
     went by like: woosh!
           watcha know,  Texans not too
lady-bi titillating **** rhetoric...
            and in other news...
that chubby moon-key worth of
every subsequent Monday dropped
from a tree, with a tarantula kippah...
if the fungus took a free ride
so did the ****** spider,
    who... had the gift of prophesisng
its future as, cushty,
   conspired with the fungus...
    'hell, this monkey will someday
build lavish aquariums for us,
feed us... pet us...'
    hence the beef-eating venture...
and the missing spiderweb production
missing like footprints on a beach...
can't tell you that I don't see
             a similarity, but there's a vital
bit missing...
no, because you don't exactly sit
around drinking beer waiting for something
like this...
    it just drops out of nowhere
and your hands start moving out of their
own will, idle only a minute prior..
hardly a sort of conversation you might
have, drinking in a bar,
with someone, other than...
   at this point even your own shadow would
run away and hide in a shadow of a tree,
forge peek-ah-boo, ******'s way gone,
and yes, only second beer in...
    a blocked toilet that began with
a translation of English
    soap operas of 40 years...
   opery mydlane...
        mydło = soap...
     yes yes, sure, Finnegans Wake
   "is": translatable...
         a little bit of bilingualism doesn't
hurt...
       unless it comes from monolingual
bureaucrats who deem it a:
   split-eddie...
          heart on my heart,
I've sat with dangerous psychopaths
doing an arithmetic exam,
while learning a lesson in empathy
at a St. John's Cross course for
first aiders...
      one even laughed about bashing his
head against a wall,
and running naked with a sword
into the street...
      but we had a laugh:
    I started to think whar prison must be
like, esp. with the Imams...
            soap operas though...
elsewhere they're known as
    tele-novellas...
                        all in all...
this is just shy from my usual escapade...
into the zamarki / technicalities
of language,
    notably in translation,
but notably in words that never made
it into the rigid rubric of ideology...
only recently i wrote something and
stashed it into a draft compartment...
    niche intrest...
          if i could counter the cartesian
res cogitans with res vanus...
  surely I could counter Heidegger's
dasein with... daseit...
     a tiny diffrence...
  the poem remains abandoned like
a public grotto for grafitti,
waiting less for a nurse to heal it,
but for a squatter to move into
the abandoned space,
   and become like a tarantula
          trying to remember how it was
to weave, a titanium silk thread into
snowflake lace...
      if only to find the squatter
  to occupy
   the scribble I might dare to call poem
that possesses all the qualities
of an abandoned house...
     and like a doormouse:
not a peep-squeak out of me in
any fathomable elaboration of due
narrative,
    when the difference is based upon
alternating the meditation invested
in daseiN prior, and now... ha ha...
     daseiT...
                       i'm sure heidegger had
in mind 's (ist) within the da-sein compound,
     as much as isn't (ist nicht)...
       given there's the "talk" of time,
I subscribe to the being and form of time,
rather than to being and formlessness of nothing
(which, becomes non-being
   and the form of nothingness)...
    already a meditative language ensues,
much akin to my current
reading material...
       dropping ashes on the buddha:
   the teachings of Zen master seung sahn
by stephen mitchell  (grove / atlantic Inc.)...
  i'm sure I'll find a squatter
who will enter this abandoned house
of a "poem",
        and elaborate on,
any inconveniences,
     notably the missing conventionality
of: a poem is not a poem
without a rhyme...
         yeah yeah...
and those poems that aim to
be "songs"...
     seriously, Shakespeare?
     Robbie Burns, zee baßtard,
   has 'em singing ****** numb-skulled
silly, every Hogmanay and even
by the Thames, each year...
at precisely, circa, mid-night...
                 even if quoted a million
times, a millionth celt and 'glican will
know             a one more
                               d'moor...
                                      tip of tear
having exhaled a line from auld lang syne.

hard to write poetry these days:
when it's a monopoly of lies...
and like a homeless man
had explained his predicament
to me: my mother told me
to never tell a lie...
         as original as the sin
as original as plagiarising
and you will be like the gods,
knowing the diffrence,
between good and evil;
even I can undrstand the
subtleness of an ingenious lie...
but not when it's obvious,
and esp. sickly-candy-choking
and all but: a depiction
of a desperate loss of idealism:
that synonym of innocence...
who is to say that
German Idealism,
           was not the awaiting
guillotine hanging before
the 20th century Mongolian
         repaganism of the Germans?
echoes of the skull pyramids
of Baghdad...
        tsunami of fame
              bulging against the immovable
rigidness of a people in number,
some listening to BBC 4's the Archers...
a past time worth the attention span
of one summer month...
          whatever this Anglo Idealism
is brewing, the scenes of
the aftermath are alredy
poking their Hydra heads through...
the aftermath is premature
unlike that of German Idealism,
which took, so much longer
to precipitate...
        hardly a reason to write poetry,
better start calling it
excerpts from a book
that doesn't exist in head,
print or tattoo...
          and never will...
              too many tornadoes
skim reading the horizon to
be both hysterical
and cool groove Aspen thrill
loaded Luke...
            but this blatant lie:
          that has as much originality
working behind the scenes,
as a dog's bark has
consonant clutches of the crutches
of canines, supporting
the uniform mammalian vowel
construct of exercising ba thing vowels...
catching shrapnel, chiselling
bone and exfoliating wet lungs...
     cul d sac of minds and
tongues working on an already
overworked canvas of people...
     as much as excavating the origins
of a handshake,
     when calibrating
the persistent script of Romans,
    who, apparently only survived,
sombre and delinquent,
and should they remind the current
people of their bulimic ******,
      no more in question as to why:
no laxatives were used,
other than the "name"
  of the father (index)
         and of the son (middle) - fingers -
shoved down the head of the osesaphagus
to agitate it,
like a seagull chic might agitate
its parent to regurgitate
partly digested food.

I dont know what to say
That hasnt already been said..

I dont know what to write
That hasnt already been writ..

I dont know what to play
That you havent already heard..

So heres the paper
You write the words..



Heres my heart
You write the burns..

Tell my why I am so diffrent..
so who am I to make any diffrence..

Tell me why I pour out my heart
An bleed it all out on this paper..
Right now..

IF YOU KEEP MUM,THERE WILL BE NO DIFFRENCE,
JUST TRY THIS OUT,THATS MAGIC OF
THE SILANCE !!

/the late 20th century scorn of art as: ars pro se - for itself... thank god celebrity culture took off, the vanguard too to the trenches... remained in the trenches... and died from a wound inflicted by their own shadow touching their bodies... imagine Narcissus talking to his reflection... post-scriptum of the selfie... fame and celebrity as a perpetuating implosion of parasitical exhaustion... the parasite of the parasite: atomised vogue whims and the five winds... at least ars pro se is a depiction of movement, an inheritance abbreviation... thanks to celebrity "culture" / membrane... we can at least fathom, the complete picture, of an imploding cube geometry... happenstance, or hypered-instance? to vote Michael Faraday as the modern Prometheus, who stole the lightning bolt from, Olypmus? up in the air, like you just don't care, etc.

post-colonial inheritance
tax... or, legacy...
                when the pride
was being infringed upon,
one *******
was nibbling at the Ottoman
postscriptum
   not exactly bothered
by Helga the Valkrye's
                           chastity
            investment bouncing
payroll guarantee...
              once you hear a Bulgarian
******* giggle...
    you hear a giddy schoolgirl,
giggle...
             and the rest rests,
all eternally, sealed inconclusively
upon an: amen.
           no Holocaust has happened
and still I find myself lodged
in a language without
a contemporary to talk crass
bullshitting with extra skid marks'
worth of carcass whipping:
       American Beauty is,
beyond a film, the summary of the 20th,
harbinger of the 21st century,
a take on Tora! Tora! Tora!
                    suddenly 10 years
within a century elongate
beyond the confines of
a century within a millenium...
          and there, really is,
enough time crafted in the vain
hope importune unearthing:
to feel less obliged to stress
a comfort, in a body that might
resemble a well-worn sofa
    ****-stink...
                    yet I still don't know
what I'm not supposed to align myself
to when some ****** will
not even bother to cite me
Herbie Hancock...
                rap took to the clothing
line, and dried,
     like some obscurity of youth,
and the once savvy toolkit
of slang, lost, reminiscent,
                  bothered by acronyms
that never and would not catch on...
funny, talking to WHITE...
  immune to a colonial past...
              a bit like talking to a Russian,
or a Beethoven in his prime...
   comes in 'un 'ere,
  'n' 'uickly leaves via the ò'very...
    baba watunga, neß pàs?

widely or rather wildly exaggerated:
post-colonial stress disorder,
conscripted? anyone who isn't or can't
be, veteran material...
    counter-thesis of growing mushrooms...
namely pulverised,
by excesses of information...
namely?
    21st propaganda is not exactly
the content, of, said, detergent advertisement...
but... pulverising non-(s)top...
      insomniac mushrooms...

modern Japan and F. D. Roosevelt's America
are synonyms...
Mongolia never makes it into
the conglomerate mafiosos' newsreel...
     sleeping people are
compensated by not engaging
in this... game that only leads
into a pit, of farcical exhaustion....
               each year, that supposed
"holy" land,
     becomes a variant of the same
pile of rubble...
           the odd olive, and the odd
lemon tree...
          and then an attempt to
rekindle the concept of the fireplace,
with the already static
     fringe buzz of t.v.,

Americans and their ******* acronyms...
romeo alpha mammoth Sistine
       elephant: and a cherub in a *******
pantry...

           how glad I am,
able to tell the diffrence between
a Nigerian and a Kenyan...
              perhaps...
the opportune moment will come...
hell...
   by then I'll be far gone,
entrenched in a thought labyrinth
spanning the hearth of Siberia...

    the mind: simultaneously
a prison, and an escape plan.

And I stayed there.
Looking inside something I knew I could never find.
What a fool I made of myself.
Even so, here I am, searching- longing.
What diffrence will it make?
One broken heart looking for another heart that simply doesn't know how to give love back.
And yet i still belive.

we are ultrahigh
ready to rock the sky
sometimes it can be tough
like love
it is not enough

you  want it
you  need it
you light it
fcking inhale it


get it everyday
do it again
if they could
smoke they would

met lot of people
lot of them smoke
we are brotherhood
people that understood


it free your mind
from the ******* lie
wont just live like fking b*tch
wanna live like i am fking rich

told me **** is bad
dont do it they said
they didnt experiece
dont know the diffrence

always smoke everyday
even in train
we have holiday
donť need to explain


lets go to smoke
we wanna be free
it cost some fee
but is dope

might be hungry
after that
left some money
in your wallet





wanna mantain
the feeling
it is fking best
dont  rest