"inserts" poems
I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon
Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes
You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)
it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
be washed away
(with spoken word inserts
by soulsurvivor)
When I die don't cry for me
In my Father's arms I'll be
The wounds this world
left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole
Sun and moon will be replaced
By the light of Jesus Face
And I will not be ashamed
For my Savior knows my name.
- chorus -
It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be Home and I'll be FREE
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away
SS insert -
Persecution I'll expect.
It's not surprising. Folks reject.
Still I LOVE my Lord so dear
I'll forgive and have no fear
Faced with evil on all sides
In the Lord I will abide
No force of hell can remove Thee
It don't matter where you bury me
---
Gold and silver blind the eye
Temporary riches lie
Come and eat from heaven's store
Come and drink and thirst no more
So weep not for me my friend
When my time below does end
For my life belongs to Him
Who will raise the dead again
- chorus -
SS insert -
I will pass. That much is clear.
I'll leave my tabernacle here
Life is short, the time doth fly
So I'll go to kiss the sky
Then I'll know all mysteries
It don't matter where you bury me
A song written by Julie Miller
Performed by Emmy Lou Harris
and Selah (this version is below)
With inserts by SoulSurvivor
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I stand so proud and tall.
With my nose pressed against the wall.
I know I was naughty, is this why your punishing me?
pssng my pants, you make me get on my knees.
Naughty Boy! Naughty Boy you shout.
After your done smelling that, I am washing your mouth out!
My nose sore from being punished by you.
What next? What now are you going to do?
the bar of soap inserts my mouth all the way to my throat.
I wont be naughty anymore than my privates were groped.
I know I looked in your ***** drawer today.
Now I am going to really pay.
Trying them on I know there for you.
I guess this naughty boy had no clue.
Putting them on my head and shoving them in my mouth.
Still at the same time washing my mouth out.
Waiting for you to come back today.
I am not scared Iv’e been naughty in every way.
No please I am not hungry, don’t make me eat the vegetables.
I sit and pout at the kitchen table.
forcing them into my mouth and making me swallow.
You lead on a leash and I am forced to follow.
I am your pet, your naughty little slave.
And it’s almost time to play.
But we both know what comes first.
The cutting of my arms to satisfy your thirst.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
ill shove flowers into my mouth and choke
myself to death with all the pollen because you
know im allergic to lilacs but you said they make my eyes look beautiful and i wanted to be
just that.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
It's not OCD
I'm just anal-rententive.
There are two
coffee urns
in my office kitchenette.
Each urn has
a spot to place your mug
beneath the spigot.
Each of these spots has
a circular insert
of gridded plastic
to mark the mug-placement area
and allow spilled coffee to flow through
so this spot
doesn't become
just a puddle of coffee
soaking the bottom of everyone's mugs.
Each of these inserts has
three indentations:
one on each side
at nine and three o'clock
small, arcing parabolas
like reversed parentheses
there to allow someone to
get their fingers into the
coffee mug spot
and under the insert
to remove it
and, presumably
clean it
and then another indentation
more like a groove
or a notch
much smaller, thinner, and deeper
at the top
that fits perfectly with
a matching
small plastic protuberance
jutting from the coffee mug spot
where the insert goes.
In an almost ****** fashion
this protuberance fits into
this last indentation
this notch
this groove
to secure the insert in place.
For some reason
I've never known
perhaps laziness
perhaps inattentiveness
more likely simple
couldn't-care-less-ness
this insert never seems to be
placed into the mug spot
properly.
It is always placed sideways
rotated a quarter-turn
so that the larger indentations
on the side
meant as finger holes
are placed top-to-bottom
noon and six
the small plastic protuberance at the top
being swallowed whole
by the too-large indentation
and its mate
the groove
meant to hold the plastic piece
so tightly
is left alone
to one side
empty
and useless.
This has always bothered me.
Bothered me more than I would like to admit.
It's such a simple little thing to get right
it would take almost no effort at all
and yet, day-after-day
someone
I don't know who
whoever is in charge of these things
insists
on doing it wrong.
And I cannot abide it.
So, day-after-day
when I go to get my morning coffee
I fix it
I twist the insert ninety-degrees
and secure it in the correct position.
Lately
I have noticed something.
Sometimes
when I go to get my coffee
one of the inserts
will already be
fixed.
Someone else has seen
what I have seen
and felt the same
had the same response
took the same corrective action.
This feels like winning something.
I don't know what
but it definitely smells like Victory.
And Conspiracy.
And it makes me happy.
Happier than I'd like to admit.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Inside the bunny suit
my ears are still small
and round, and percussive
sounds come to visit me
costumed in white muffles.
Inside the bunny suit
a bead of sweat itches
my nose to rabbit fidget
and wiggle-twitch where
my fingers can’t reach it.
Inside the bunny suit
a thin layer of nylon dots
inserts its silky self
between me and everything
I fumble to touch.
Inside the bunny suit
the outside world’s broken
up by a half-dozen holes,
and green strands fuzz the focus
of each fragmented peep.
Inside the bunny suit
probing orange lights
make kaleidoscope shapes
through those same cut
openings. They distract me.
Inside the bunny suit
I can smile at and feel
closer to the fantastic
creatures who surround me
in their own decorous skins.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
Cocoon suspended ‘neath a branch,
Out of harmer’s range;
Churning in tight quarters then,
Awaiting for the change.
A cast she’d spun with great detail,
To blend into the scene;
Remain innocuous, choosing plain,
To spend such days serene.
This sanctuary has terms of time;
Yet flippant so, of sight;
Blinded by the darkness kept,
May only dream of flight.
There, outside this nurturing crypt,
Lies futures yet untold;
Exploring freedom, airless hours,
As wings will then unfold.
Alterations to her inner form
Complete in all detail;
While oblivious to worlds unknown--
Mem’ries without a trail.
As perforations tear a fold,
In which she will embark,
To crystal, glowing cast of moon
Within this evening, dark;
She wrestles to uncurl her girth
And wingspan so anew;
That seems so awkward, foreign and
Has converted different hue.
Now perched upon her drying bed,
She fans while instincts try
To capture sens’ry explosions
That lay to foundling’s eyes.
Beyond the glen, a spot she sees;
A single glowing blur.
Just then each tree bends toward one side,
As breaths sweep under her.
Weightless, floating, movement new,
She tests her longer arms,
That reach, manipulating wind,
Should quivers strike alarm.
The lure of the eerie glow,
Possess investigation,
As closer toward the light she flies,
Embraced with consternation.
Near collision with the beacon,
She’s halted in mid-air;
Translucent strings of sticky form,
She didn’t see, were there.
She wrestles, tries to free herself,
While a shadow looming near
Smiles with contentment of
His cunning craft of snare.
Slowly he approaches while
She looks to see his eyes,
So vacant of emotive flush,
With fear she starts to cry.
The octo-legged creature then,
Inserts his poisoned quill,
As venom circulates her life,
He waits until she’s still.
Then coils her in silky thread,
While dancing ‘bout his room.
Tho’ this is of his own design,
She returns, inside cocoon.
As thoughts of life, such brevity,
Released of any pain.
She closes youthful eyes at last,
And dreams of flight again.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
She never wanted to be a Mom,
and now her life is nothing but wrong;
What will she tell everyone she knows,
maybe she'll wait until she shows?
~
The Fetus who slumbers in her Womb,
one day will be running out of room;
She must Abort this one in her,
for shame she simply can't endure.
~
She makes an appointment at the clinic,
know one must know, no one must see;
She arrives the next day, still so unaware,
that her Fetus is growing, lots of hair.
~
They lay her on a Hospital bed,
where soon the Fetus will be dead;
The Doctor inserts a clear, long tube,
where it wreaks havoc, within the Womb.
~
The baby moves away from it,
it feels like she has just been bit;
Upon her face, there is a scowl,
it's much too late to turn back now.
~
The hose clamps on to her very, small hand,
the Fetus can't cope, nor understand;
It pulls the hand right off the arm,
yet Mother thinks she did no harm.
~
Next it grabs onto her hip,
and her tiny leg begins to rip;
Emersed in pain, she pulls away,
she'll not live to see another day.
~
At last it latches onto her head,
the heartbeat stops, this child is dead;
She smiles, her reputation intact,
a conscience is one thing she lacks.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 3:54 PM UTC
She sits in the Doctor's office,
with one thing on her mind;
To rid herself of this Fetus,
so she can go on with her life.
~
Her dreams would all be ruined,
if this child were to be born;
She just can't let that happen,
thus she decides to Abort.
~
They call her back to a room,
she follows the Nurse's lead;
Gently she lays on the bed,
then sees the ******* machine.
~
Her mind is filled with doubt,
"Am I making a huge mistake;
The baby isn't even alive,
get a grip, for pity sakes."
~
Then the Doctor enters the room,
he is really quite polite;
Inside of her, he inserts a tube,
and she squeezes her eyes tight.
~
But deep within the occupied Womb,
the Fetus flinches away;
As the hose begins to tear apart,
how and what it may.
~
Then it grabs onto her tiny hand,
no longer a thumb to ****
The baby's eyes are filled with tears,
for the pain is just too much.
~
Little by little, it tears her apart,
no one can hear her screams;
But parts of her pass through the tube,
thanks to that horrid machine.
~
Her tiny head is the last to go,
donned in curly, black hair;
She's simply but a memory,
Mama's product of an affair.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
*the pleasured thrills of a
une liaison dangereuse
the mystery du triangle hypoténuse
two open, unended lines attached
to make a so interesting right (wrong) angle,
mais sans l'hypoténuse leur est pas de connectivité
indeed the hypotenuse hypothetical is crack for my brain
imagination steel furnace fired, molten are my fingers
as they trace the line you left for me on your body
to adore to cherish to lick to follow an arrow pointing
where?
to the heavenly pleasures that earth reside
in our differences substantial
which intrigue rather than
divide
opposites attract is true and not,
we could be
we could not be more unalike
that so excites for dreams only I can uncover
in the rounded shape of thine wide eyes
a horrific inserts
she is only teasing me
but the need to dance on the brink
the fulfillment that origins in a need perpetual
is the one that satisfies because it cannot
be fully satisfied
if you know this need, then you are mine bonded
beyond is at where the hypotenuse connect our lines,*
"we'd be beyond human, beyond poem, beyond horizon,
beyond stars and black holes and daisy-chains and metaphors
with nothing to say to say to an end, because it goes on, my dear, -- I'll see you at the brink...dance with me there"
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
Of course it's all in your head,
But that doesn't mean it
Isn't true; then I am glad
Your head is so clear, my head
Is not, my head doesn't believe
I am good enough, but does that mean
Dear headmaster, that that is true?
I know, you will surely say no.
My head inserts pieces of my
History into my present, and I know
Yours does too, that is
What heads do, and we are still
Both humans. It is not words
That are pretending to be wise
That will help me outrun
My own expectations, because
It is all in my head and I will
Make a change, because my head
Is lying, it's lying, it is
And you cannot possibly want me
This time, to think is isn't.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Arteries benumbed
Reading pharmaceutical's inserts no fun
Reading your mind even worse
Print so small
Foldings such as a roadmap
Those molecular models delineated
Moods might just as well be
Translating cuneiform
You wedge-shape marks on me
Deceptive blinks cut my clayey gray matter
That mascara you wear
Like kajal on Persian Princess
Ovular pills with spider legs
How do I defend from?
Enigmatical ellipses
Narcotic exotic
I look for, but find no
Adjoining pamphlets or warnings
To all your strange side-effects
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
not in the usual way with
bent knee and bowed head
but with nag champa and cd inserts, with
deep reds,
plastic costume jewelry beading and safety pinned rips.
it was post cards and cigarette ash
with Kroger's box dye in
rusted orange.
staining our fingernails. didn't matter. we painted them in
neon green and chunky glitter. we stayed up late and wandered
laughter like a shattered diamond breaking into a million stars and thrown out over such a welcoming ivory towered
night sky.
and itallian food households with those noodles in jars.
looking up.
it was Billy Corgan telling us he'd
sing along.
it was memories that aren't even mine. cut in my eyes.
it was blunt bobs and pixie haircuts. it was cut necklines and walking on air. giant chain necklaces and whispered chap-lipped secrets.
endless folds and bottomless love
in a deliciously musty floral hat box.
you're just low end in
loving apathy.
and i'm absent in my own life.
it was an interruption so unspeakably painful.
doesn't seem so hard to revisit.
but i can't.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
I am sure my mail lady loves me
She does stop by my house frequently
She brings me letters, bills and adverts
And with great force my mail she inserts
Though jammed, crammed, mashed and squashed is the mail
Like an abstract origami fail
Of which she fits into my mail box
Deftly and quick like she’s on the clock
And without so much as a toodaloo
She leaves as if she is just passing through
But I know she just wants my attention
Her act is just a cry for affection
I’ll let her know her message is received
I’ll leave behind something she can retrieve
A purple handmade folded paper crane
Which I’ll then crush and vigorously maim
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
She drives up to the old building like she has done every other day for several months.
Turns off the ignition and steps out of the vehicle
As she walks through the automatic doors she wonders at the contrast between modern conveniences and old world antique décor
The building is well over a hundred years of age
And it smells of it
It also smells of paper, tape, business, hopes, dreams, and even devastation
Yes, much passes through this building
She continues on and turns into the first corridor and walks to the very end.
She takes out the key and it feels hard and smooth in her hand
Much like the marble upon which she is standing
She stares at the box her breathing quickening
She inserts the key and twists, thinking to herself that hope is waiting with that little door ajar
But as it turns out hope is just an open wound
Sighing, another little piece of her essence again slowly ebbs out and goes to that place in the building that collects such things
It is what keeps the building strong after all these years
It is what it feeds on
It has been dining on her for months now
Soon there will be naught left of her to consume
She closes her eyes and secures the door, putting the key back into her pocket
Over time disappointment has been slowly becoming the scabs and scars that cover her
Also poisoning her blood
However despair, despair is the antidote
It has her returning every other day, week after week, month after month
As she exits she smells a faint hint of decay and hears a whisper emanate from the building
Softly it says, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, If you have already abandoned hope, please disregard this notice.”
Ah…but she is already aware that there is no hope, no escape from the never ending torment
But that is ok, she thinks, she likes it here. ~M
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
I, the poet wandering and amazed
Nailed by unhappiness to the wall
By age and poverty,
On which floor of stupidity or ignorance I dwell?
I don't know,
However, I count beads of the words
As rosary,
In Hope of Redemption
And attain light of elevation
All covered with Serenity.
Consistent and quiet with myself alone,
As the greatest longing for Purity -
Which one touches the World by the wise look.
In my dreams, I wander
Among the shady palm tree's alleys,
Where my beautiful, forever, Nefertiti -
Who never gets old,
Calms wrinkled surface of the water
And inserts hand inside familiar gesture,
Bowing her head
To bless Buddha and the whole Kingdom.
Hiding in her *****
The Script of The United Elements, and
Papyrus of The Secret Proportion,
Silences her existence
In front of the threshold at Highest Meditation.
Same time
On the bank of the river Nile
Peasant washes his food,
Squeeze's thorn from his heel
Whole in the prayer and pain.
The countless form of existences
In the Total Kingdom of Being and Suffering,
In the Space of Vanished Events.
In vain to look
In the scrolls of the treasures
Library of Alexandria
Simple prescription.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
I swear the machine is the culprit
It explains the sore bones and sleepless nights
from the moment your fist meets the black button
before the ink of time has dried
it grips you in caste iron clamps
inserts its ******* tube into your spine
and drains your humanity
gorging on it like famished swine
Through an ocean of searing hot oil
and pummeled flour
it laughs at you
a sordid laugh stinking of raw meat
amplified by static voices over an intercom
each beep penetrating with the force of a power drill
please hold for a moment
I've seemed to have spilled my brain onto this greasy floor
let me scoop it onto some rice for you
there,
an original chop.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
she hums,
gracefully weaving,
effortlessly sewing.
scarlet hair cascades up to her back.
her lazy, brown eyes--sharp.
she's wearing a crimson dress
with horrible frills
and stuffy fabric.
she dances across the room,
and sings sinfully.
she inserts the red thread of fate
into the eye of the needle.
she knots it,
and sews.
she laughs,
as she hears shrieks.
a beautiful instrumental to her humming!
("What wonderful instruments you are.")
she mournfully shakes her head,
seeing looks of disdain and horror
directed at her.
her girls needed to look their best after all--
she even made the effort to help them too.
how ungrateful!
(sew their mouths shut.
she does just that.)
she bursts into a gleeful chorus.
(before their consciousness faded away,
they curse the inescapable thread
that caught them
and entangled them with the countess.)
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
RECORD: I LIV)E}D] ON THE MOON
FROGMAN: KWOON
RECORD: UNGODLY Froot
frogman: wax tailor
YOU'all are just like other people
We love to sting
sHe loves to trance
he admires b-e-a-utiful twoomen
Us're whoman
And most-times, twoo whomans
:Now I know my ABC'S
watch me confuse'em like the bourgeoisie:
-"but he pronounced it like Bilgemonkzees"-
( . . 3 . Oh dear, I hope you don't forget to feed me . .
2 . "I am still learning,"
and I've Dear'd to Remember to Forget my Confusions . .
REFORM: WRITE FOR SELFSE
{B-E-A-Grateful no-s1: "Read DeadHeads to BEGIN,
or Blue Tails to END"
-flips coin- }
}
1 . .
CONTINUE: DON'T FORGET
RECORD: curiosity's and imagination's
FROGMAN: selfse
program: INTROFLECTION,
I think "We've thunk it once before,
but it Bears repeating,
now"
LISTEN to us, all of you.
Que'Sera!
-caches Bit-
HA! VV !AH
S A Y
HAHAH
-Opens Mind-
"MY FROG... we're full of chars-"
- [May{jor(+/-)To}m] = E.ven-One
-- 1999-2001, a Race Ode-vent-you-See
[END OF LINE]
for those who may be hamyoung-us for the first time
{END OF MY RHiYMnE}
And Whu-may-n't be pondering what isn't going to clappin now.
(BEGIN TO /S/hEwE TiME)
It is of Coarse : Smoothing for the Mind, Body, and The Selfse of us all.
So,
SPEAK/ . 0\UP
|Whyever needs Bee? Wills Bee.|
Oh, you're di-vidend?
Oi've got these Two Mackszillery Tired Molaz, Whight.
whand day I was cwussin'a peace'a fwaery'dandy
and tay cwacked, whont down ta cagey'mentals.
now ta twooe woots is eckzpozed.
and i sding'em evewy dway
. . .-inserts troothpic-
jrus'tho da gwhothet OH's it's thrill'a jlive one up'teir
-- prole
/and the ghost speaks:
?_
/\
/
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Days as such when i seek out such a person
That of whose skin glitters elegant jewels
Whose smile dares the sun to shine brighter
A person whose bare aroma challenges the potency of heavens roses
Said person whose imperfections hammer the unfitting pieces into the places in the puzzle that constructs them
Validated
Among
Love
Eminent to
Notions of
Tedious
Inserts of
Neverending
Elation
Where art thou, my Valentine?
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:30 PM UTC
“What information pertains:
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains”
<>
Paul Simon “Train in the Distance”
<>
a songwriter inserts a precise scalpel cut
in the nether part of the brain
where we bury
things we-wish not to recall, but
that particular
poem-scrap-dagger/byte
must remain a permanent
guest on a cruise ship
going around the world that can
never return to your
hailing port
“indelibly”
that which we hope
that cannot be
removed or forgotten
or in a reverse
of a kinda curse,
this hope stabbing
is springing eternal
when I need to be bleak,
quiet on all fronts,
silence the voices
desirous to speak
in tones moving me
from down sided
up, to up and away
that **** thought
life could be better
“if f—king only…”
is a cut that never
ceases to bleed~leak,
can’t be curettage away,
never healed,
it’s indelible
it’s a saturday morning
bright and chilly
indelibly
incurable
stamped and stampeding
on my mind
that this arctic exploration,
is self-exploitation
and curse my
heart and brain that won’t
accept my explanation
nor my pleading pleas
wet knots of
begging to anyone in particular
to please
leave me alone
&
this is how the week
ends
October 2024
Oct 19, 2024
Oct 19, 2024 at 8:18 AM UTC
The last time the river beds drowned
you knocked by the door and offered
sinking dreams of whales and fails
doomed stars burnt in flooded skies
tainted leaves heaved on angled heavens
visions of torture in trodden deserts
tensions of fractured love inserts
On the bridge of ambivalence, I tossed a coin
a plank set adorned with red ankh signatures
I took your hand, you drooling phantom!
It's nearly a year now, in your world runabouts
another day, a heavier destination, a hesitation
the silence, the demise, the whining ice arise
absent shoulders eating my independence
The freedom you longed in the winter breaks
dissipates thinly in the thunder stroked flakes
and the tears dried and my summer suffice
confronted by an endless long year in the cold bed
covered by conversations of the specter sceptered specks
deranged by miles and the longed played nights
on a realisation that you were never really there
Fleet along young one, the years are a swift ear
listening continuously, whilst switching promptly
making dreams from a mould of changing trims
flinching, twitching perceptions of new beginnings
for I no longer stay at the phone reaching, waiting
nor stay in the patch of haunted misery and hate
join the next column and stop treading in my camp
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
I'm the sorrowful circumference of everything nothingness,
Night swimming in perplexed psychosis and paranoia amiss,
Sour patch grimace stifling posture,
Behold the flames of yesterday's meeting of love gone autumn,
Cut and paste alertness to server overtime,
Digging up a grave for my hollow mind,
The midnight hawk glides over blank terrains,
And inserts its abstract provisions and declare it's his domain,
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
My partner and I had tickets to the show last night in Chicago. After 7days in the hospital my girlfriend's 89 year old grandma was to come home with hospice care to follow. Instead of a splendid concert experience I knew I had to be there for her fam to ease the tough pill to swallow. Grandma Monica shed the shell, saw it bagged up and hollow. I was able to provide hugs and love, along with the opportunity to speak about the flow of energy. I like to remind myself and others to speak to the "deceased" for in my own scope it's been therapeutic for me. Haven't been this heavy in a long time. The rain and gray are beautiful, relaxed in the lack of sunshine. I've visualized our meeting many times, I look up to you being a fellow sayer of rhymes. I appreciate the way you've spent your mind. It wasn't until a couple days ago I realized one of the impossible inserts may have been signed. Thank you for your shine, highlighting the design of divine. The life you've made manifest helps others feel breaths inside their chests. Two legends yesterday were laid to rest, so now I look at myself and decide to clean my mess.
Gotta reconnect with my descendant sandwich before the organic ingredients are digested and appear to vanish. To those I want to know, you are one of my favorite artists. I laugh but could totally see some sort of apprentice partnership. Doesn't look like I'll make it this tour...and one of my cats just puked, gonna go skip aesop rocks in my ripped up Lugz boots.
Much love,
Ryan
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC