HUMAN HISTORY 2: LET'S DANCE
(A few words of acknowledgement: While these are my ideas and thoughts, I drew heavily on the story of 'Waterlily', written by Ella Cara Deloria. The discussion between the two Sioux women described below are drawn from this book. Her book beautifully details the life of 2 Dakota Sioux women and with them the customs, beliefs and beauty of the Dakota Sioux people. I am deeply in her debt.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'Let's dance.
Lets dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.'
-D. Bowie


I.
'Hao, Kola!'
'Hao, Kola!'
Greetings between two
darkly tanned men, black hair
long and waving erratically in the wind,
their deep black eyes smile
and embrace these two warrior friends.
'Hao, Kola!'

II.
Out in the open prairie,
under an intense blue sky,
a few sharply white clouds
float in contrast against it;
two Peoples drew towards
each other for a ceremonial sing,
as was customary before the Great Sun Dance.

Ill.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
Dakotas and Omahas meet.'
Hokahe' floats on the fresh morning breeze.
Colorful war standards wave and
flirt about gracefully.
The Omahas have come to sing.
The Omahas, proud, magnificently bold.
The Omahas, self assured in painted red face,
wearing heavily fringed buckskin white,
brilliantly adorned.
With war standards and lances held high,
the Omahas were a breath taking sight.
As there on the prairie's lush green grass
Omahas greet Dakotas with ceremonial song.

IV.
Two Dakota women overheard talking:
Blue Bird: 'You met them?! What are
white people really like?
Are they gentle, kind, as their
skin would imply?'
Smiling One: 'No, they are very hard, very
stern and dull towards each
other. They pass each other without
recognition. Very unmannerly.'
Blue Bird: 'And what about the children?
How do they play?'
Smiling One: 'Oh, this is so sad I would
say. I don't understand the
reasoning behind their ways.
These people actually detest
their children. You should see
them; slapping their little one's
faces and lashing their poor little
buttocks to make them cry!
Yelling and screaming at them
anytime of the day. I have never
seen children treated this way!!'
Blue Bird: Deep in thought, hugs little
Water Lily. She feels sick with
sympathy for these unknown
children. Only crazy people
teach their children like this.
What makes white people act so crazy?

V.
The Sun Dance time has arrived.
All the different Peoples, Tribes.
The Dakota, Teton, Omaha
make good on their vows
to the Great Spirits,
renew the hopes of their families
for peace and plenty from the land.
And they danced.
Looking straight into the sun,
because they knew it was what made them one
with the world and each other.
And they danced.
Time itself was lost in the sun
and new life was begun.
And they danced.
Danced around and sacrificed on
the clean cut pole,
blessed and made holy
just for this ceremony.
And they danced.
Till the sun was thrice Earth eaten
and moon time rose full in the sky.
But now on a different scene
and a People from so long ago,
who in their naked skin,
danced and howled at the moon.
Howled at the dead and the living.
Howled and danced,
danced and howled cause they were human.

VI.
Alone,
orbiting on this blue-toned Earth
I want to ask:
When will we, today’s humans dance?
Dance in global community?
Dance on the lush green grassy plains?
Dance on high hillsides, howling at a full, lush moon?

VII
'Let's dance.
Let's dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues...'

~~written 10.1.98~~

nothing more satisfying
than that
first swim
of the summer
that first lick of a
dripping icee or gelato whatever floats your goats

but that view
of that first warm sunset
reminding you that you don't got a man yet.





absolutely precious

Ajoke, daughter of moremi,
Beauty is a predicament in your lineage,
Your beauty bring out star at night,
Stars even told the Wisemen about it.

The beauty that runs in your blood,
Mama kola makes a lot of profit at dawn,
When men gathered to drink and speak of
Your beauty.
Each making a bet to have you.


Ajoke, your ęwa(beauty)  is angelic,
Your tiny voice is mellific,
Your dimples is intoxicatic,
Your ostrich legs so charismatic.

But your beauty is delusive,
Think not that a derisive,
I must be Ilucinating!
Stop appearing in my dreams,
Come to my reality!

Doc Allen

Hello nurse, how does our day look,
pretty busy Doctor Allen.
Well send me in the first patient,
hello Mr. Davis, how may I help you,
well doc, I have a problem getting a *******.
Well sir you have Erectile Dysfunction,
or better know as impotence.
I will write you a prescription for ******,
try them for a week, if they don't work,
have your wife come in and I will satisfy her needs.
Next patient, Nurse Lucy,
His name is well we don't know he has Amnesia.
Oh goody, hello do you know who you are, nope,
do you know where you're from, nope,
do you know anything, nope.
Well sir there are no pills,
but I will try something.
Now this may hurt a lot,
I'm gonna whack you with a hammer.
Ouch doc, hey I remember now,
my name is Bob and I'm from Boston, thanks doc.
Nurse Lucy, who's next,
it's Susan and she has Tourette Syndrome,
oh boy, another winner.
Hello Susan how are you today,
good doc, ****, ****, *******.
Wow does this happen often,
about twice a day, ****, ***, ****.
Well Susan there is no cure,
but you must relax more,
try some yoga and meditation,
now slutty, *****, *****, get the **** out.
Nurse Lucy, who's next, Lance he has Leprosy,
wow what a day this is.
Hello Lance, how are you today,
I'm good but I'm falling apart.
I see that your finger just fell on my desk,
sorry doc, it's getting worse,
I already lost my *****.
Well Lance there is nothing worse than that,
there is one known treatment.
It's called Gotu Kola, it doesn't cure it,
but it will slow it down.
Oh god sir, your ear just fell in my coffee,
we'll have to order it, but in the mean time,
try not to lose your head.
Nurse Lucy, anyone else,
one more Doctor Allen and it's me,
I need *** real bad.
Bend me over the desk,
and pound me good,
Nurse Lucy,
I thought you'd never ask.

The ghost in your eyes tells me it's gonna be alright. ****** senseless on what might as well have been a two stacked mattress at Holiday Inn, your girl closes her yes and sees orange tones of red flashing down the white sleeves of your bland shirt,

she's on fire, heavenly so, she's on fire, a can of crushed fruit stuffed and so you feel for me, your dreams of wooly women curved of sheep and soul-y wandering across your aim, you fire, "I'm into it." as you set my frame a-glow. My legs twist into pretzels, see me baby. I am your Amazonian woman, wide-shipped and shimmering beneath the angry sun.

Orange hued and hungry for your blue American Spirited high yellow lungs, you find my funkadellic paraphernalic lips, swollen as they are for your candor.

I am Queen Ivy inspire, lucidly waiting to be the poison that inspires you, I sit lonesome on the stoop of anabandoned lot, Peter Penning down your inked arms, "Not only boys are lost," into your caramel Cuban coffeed dreams, "Girls can be too."

What live game do I remind you of, I wonder as you taste me, bitter kola nut forming across your lips as white swells of smoke ruin you, we are unbearably distant. One never hurt and the other already ruined once before and possibly never again: That sickeningly silly kind of shy but not that lingers cold to the blue flames you expel my way as dark clouds form into your eyes.

I am your Amazonian woman.

Let me have a bite
Beside the shaped ancient teeth
From the mythic kola
Where only wisdom dwells.
.
Let me have a smoke
From the ancient pipe
Pulled out from aged toothless mouth
That smells our untainted heritage.
.
Let me have a sip
From the curved horns and cultured Calabash
Filled up with ale and undiluted palm wine
To intoxicate me with our heritage.
.
Let me have  a seat
Amongst the white beard heads
To play the "local game" with stones
So that I may be taught the bounds in my thoughts from
From aged bloods that flows like euphrates into the garden of our motherland.
.
Let us have some music
Sang with dry lips that echoes from soundless cave
Infuriated with flutes, gongs and talking drums
That we may dance-off our ignorance
To see the chain left by our ancestors to be drawn.

Balogun David Tolulope
Drunk  Poet
© 2017

I thought I could be strong for you mama
To endure the pain and drama
The countless whips on my naked body
The tears that flow all night.
I wish you could read between the lines
To hear my soul whisper the pain I felt.
Why couldn't you unveil the beast you cuddled daily?
Each night the crescent moon floods my room
I would watch joy and happiness flee from me
Each night, my dignity was stolen, my heart broken
My soul ripped apart but I couldn't scream.
Did his gifts blind your eyes to your child
Did his lies taste like sweet wine?
Did my truth taste like bitter kola?
Did my tears make you aghast?
Will I die in silence? Night after night.

By the time you read this
I'll be in my daddy's arms
I'll tell him the horror your love committed.

OH BABY! FLOWERS BLOOMED FROM MY SKULL.

do you remember how you split it open? like the bittersweet greeting of a kola nut, you split it open, ya know? yelling goodbyes to my brain, as all my memories kicked for mercy to never be forgotten.

do you remember the ripples of my blood?
you told me i was beautiful, how the cerebral sap of my mind was tender and pink and raw, like a cleaved watermelon on a japanese summer’s day, sweet and sour, so sweet and sour, you watched in delight as I writhed on the barren floor, begging mother earth for sweet death.

i remember you well.
the sparse nightclub, the flashing lights, the litters of countless dancing bodies.
then there was you, gold-eyed, black-lipped, summer-dropped skin, dyed-waves.
you looked for sad girls like me, girls who tried to fix you, and spoon feed you words of love and glamor, you looked heartbroken darling.

you were gorgeous, godly gorgeous, with the devil’s mind but the tongue of a saint, you reeled me in; never having to hunt since your prey came to you, we searched for the lost light in your eyes.

and I saw it, life reborn, given birth by da vinci, a renaissance erupted through your white death bones, you came alive, savoring each wound, each terrified soprano raking my raspy throat till their was no more, you were strong, so ungodly strong that fighting back only got you harder, happier-severing my hope of survival to a orange pulp.

but i got to see it.
how i fixed you.
temporarily.

there was complete solace in your eyes, you could breathe again, feel again, laugh again, enjoy again, cry again, dream again, living gave you misery, yet ****** bore you life itself.

do you remember? cause i remember. how you said there were flowers blooming from my skull.
no mourning lilies or winged roses, but a cornucopia of smiling magnolias, swollen tulips, and drugged poppies, you told me i was beautiful.

what a fond summer slaughter it was.

“he caved in your head to fill the hollowness in his heart. but you are nothing more than a fleeting memory now.”

-AugustusSea

I heard the sound gongs
That echoes vehemently through
The dept of my solemn soul
The call, of which I must answer
O crier! Bearer of the voice of the ancient ones
Calling unto me, to come have a seat amongst the ancestors.
.
I fear that I might be gone
Too soon to give thee my " adieu "
I fear that you might be the hands to wash me in my death
I fear I might be gone!
Far gone to share in your "kola" and "palm wine"
Oh! I fear that My lands,barns,wives and Concubines would fall in your hands after my Exit from this naked world.
.
But I would smile
When my soul gazes down
Seeing myself in the round circles
Of your unending presence
I would dance to sweet dirges from you lips
I would smile when your heads shake for me
My cheeks enchanted with laughter in the tale
Of your ignorance.
.
For now, I decide your fate
Of your dreams I now have a tale
Your voices,I a carrier
The ancestors seat now my dwelling.


Balogun David Tolulope
(Drunk poet)

It's been over two decades
Since I was evicted from my mother's womb
Naked I was, like the world herself
Clothed with tragedy and couples of disdemeanor
.
I become one of the grasses
On which two elephants vindicated
Suffering from the friendly smile of the sunlight
And the  fair hospitality of the wretched moonlight
.
Then my thoughts sat me down
I know about poor luxuries downtown
And big fishes now drowning in Mississippi
Hmmm.... Vague world with little clarity!
.
But news came to me
Like hurdles and puzzles of past years
A place beyond the moon and the stars
Where I will **** from golden *******
And listen to tales from the  mouth of "countless kola"
.
Balogun David Tolulope {drunk poet}
©️2017
IG*acedadrunk_poet

Pre par godina, izlazim iz kuce i upucujem se pravo na pesacki prelaz.

Na prelazu onako po pravilu pogledam prvo desno, a odozgo ide taxista, cini mi se usporava, a iza njega jos dva automobila.  Mislim, ako taxista stane, mozda ga ovi iza zaobidju. Nije bas za prelazak.

Pogledam levo, a odozdo jedan jurca kao da ni ne vidi da je u blizini pesacki prelaz. Mislim se, kakvih ludaka ima, ne prelazi jos.

Pogledam opet desno, taksista se zaustavio, a ovi iza takodje. Mislim, mogla bih sad, samo ovaj sto jurca odozdo da prodje.

Pogledam levo, a ovaj sto je jurcao zaustavlja se ispred pesackog, sta mu bi?

S desne strane prilazi otac sa malim detetom, 2-3 godine drzi ga za ruku i videvsi da je ovaj stao, gledajuci samo ka njemu, zakoracuje da predje ulicu.

U istom trenutku okrecem glavu ponovo na desno, a odozgo stvorise se niotkuda kola hitne pomoci koja jure bez sirene. Hvatam brzo coveka za rame i naglo ga povlacim  unazad, i u istom trenutku kola hitne nam prolaze ispred nosa.

Tad shvatam zasto je onaj ludak stao, ne zbog pesaka nego zbog hitne pomoci koji su iz suprotnog pravca jurila u njegovoj traci.

Nakon toga prelazimo ulicu, a otac iza mene se smeje, zahvaljuje i dobacuje "znaci ovo je onaj vic, ...sreca u nesreci".

Uzvracam mu osmehom i nastavljam svojim putem i dalje smejuci se u sebi sta mi se desilo i sa jednim lepim osecajem da sam nekom mozda spasila tog dana zivot :)

*mh, Decembar 2016

In the land of Igbo, where stories unfold,
A soul bears burdens, both young and old.
"Why always me?" the heart does plea,
In the rhythm of life, a poignant decree.

Beneath the palm trees, where breezes sigh,
Ancestral echoes in the crimson sky.
Through the hustle of markets, tales untold,
The query persists, a narrative bold.

Is it the weight of history, a heavy chain?
Or destiny's dance in the pouring rain?
In the dance of kola, where traditions blend,
"Why always me?"—a query to comprehend.

Through the bustling cities and village lanes,
Resides a spirit resilient, amidst life's strains.
In the echoes of language, a melodic plea,
"Why always me?" in the Igbo symphony.

Yet, amid challenges, strength does rise,
In the tapestry of struggles, where hope lies.
Through the echoes of ancestors, resilience we see,
A vibrant spirit asking, "Why always me?"

The world is a plain sheet
That needs to be arrayed
With morphemes, words, sentences and languages.

The world is a war field
Where we do not array bullets in riffles
But inks triggered by our heart
Through a ball point pen.

The world is a market place
Where we batter calligraphy for bread and wine;
Like trading kola-nut for cowries.

The world is a grave a tomb, an open sepulcher
Where the flesh and souls of man is laid;
Doctors, Philosophers, Engineers, even I, a literatis
But I have aforetime immortalized myself. I am a literati.

If you want the sauce
It's home sweet home
I shall carry the wine
From the iconic palm tree
But you must see my people
The Umu Nwayis and the Adas
"Igba nkwu abia go"

You want total package
Pay the price, for the prize
First, come, declare manifesto
Not as politicians of our time
For Amadioha judges instantly
Then, Nnayi shall be officially informed

"Bia kuaka n'uzo"
With an original Ibo kola
That which does not understand "oyibo"
And when I say "Yes"
Your kolanut will be accepted
Giving way for "Iju ajuju"

Come with dry gin and gifts
More kolanuts and drinks
The Umunna awaits my King
The one that tickles my fantasy
Pay the "Ugwo ishi Nwanyi"
I can't wait to bear your children

Now that we are here
"Igba nkwu Nwanyi"
Let the town crier sound the gong
Come wine, dine and merry
When the wine is in inside "Iko"
Even if all lights in the world goes numb
Your sweet fragrance will lead me to you

I see the glow in your eyes
Still as enchanting as our first meet
Nothing else mattered
As I danced towards My "Obim"
They called and beckoned
But my heart belongs to you

Drink my love, drink
Drink from my breast of life
For therein you shall drink
For the rest of your life
Till death do us path
And with this drink
I thee wed, for better for best!

.no... i'm pretty sure, that prior to hearing... glitter's rock and roll part 2... oh sure... if any of these citations were my favorite... anything but the sound of a congregations of humming farts and echoes... the trusted: self-help guru mantras... the what ifs of what nots... and knots... period pieces of picked up... and all of which... no... not even :wumpscut: bunkertor 7 - vomito *****'s fall of an empire... what radio station are you listening to? the kind that might also play 13th floor elevators' you're gonna miss me... somehow they'll be playing the black angels' young men dead... well if there's a radio station that does that... i'm gonna do the next best thing to compensate the feminists burning their bras... i'll burn my ******* vinyls! but... i can't see that on the horizon: any time soon!

anything by frank zappa...
or... iggy pop...

           and out of the bag
those stand-out tracks...

           fat white family -
        whitest boy on the beach...

wolf alice - silk...

              slaves - cheer up london...

scot the braille-reader...
which could be a name for a band's
name...
more like scotty the whipped-lock
baron...
or just scotty the braille-reader...

redder meat than buffalo steak...
a streak of tartare...
bitten by a dozen...
by a dozen: and none of them
are mosquitos...

for all the whipped cream:
sacrilege of the sacred...
beelzebub the lord of the flies...
my debaser...
my rhythm guitar on
white stripes' seven nation army...
my: this whiskey bottle
just went to heaven...

ms. amber um-um and all
those leftover yummy-crumbs
and slurps of a slush-puppy
sequence...

nirvana and sonic youth:
our lady peace...

             obviously the pixies...
the people of the sticks...
       the lesser inquiring montage
of inquisitive bums...

the nuns of beirut...
         the kola-kool kids of sunday
school mandarin...

                that! john peel epitaph.

***** boots: ariel clean socks!

       mud! rummaging in...
clay and custardo: mantra of a north
korean commando!

small elephant! big mouse!

              mahler digs ****...
mozart only does marzipan oral!

well... if beelzebub is the lord of
**** happens...
jesus, oh hey-zeus and christian...
who's the lord of the mosquitos?
who needs as much blood
and doubly as much wine?

the real miracle came when:
he turned the water into wine...
apparently no miracle
when he turned wine into blood...
the miracle: i'm pretty sure...
he turned the water into wine...
but... never mind...
he's still the lord of the mosquitos...

sugar kane and ***** boots...
anything on in utero:
the lesser part of me is still
struggling with that whole:
in vitro...

               imagine the birth of
a vampire... a blood-clot pandemic...
a romance of vampire...
that ol' h.i.v. riddled drag queen...
the vampire is either...
is a vampire an anemic or...
a haemophiliac?

                     the bad blood: ministry...
fear factory: linchpin or
zero signal...

          KMFDM - juke joint jezebel...
'i'm am the city that will rise'...

                vex'd: citations of blade runner...
i want more... life... ******...
the good old days of donny the dub and stepper...
precarious strawberries...
better... precarious strawberry harvest!
nuance: all is pink...

       ha ha...
               i'm the madman and all i did:
please don't let the draconian hogs...
oh... look... youngsters on parole...
coughing into the faces of the elderly...
n.h.s. ambulances found with nails stuck
in tires... moving slower than...
slu------- -gs pour some salt on them...
watch them sizzle in the sun...
hell... find a toad... smear some lipstick
onto it... let's wait for the princess...
no princess in 10 minutes...
set the neon-green burp alight...

as i was told by two conspiring sadist
peform this torture chamber in
the open... their excuse was:
fairy tales are gay... none of them are true...
we'd much prefer to be told the mundane
truth first... to later find escape in daydreams
than be fed the worse kind of virus disease
with santa...
      
        i just wished they stayed on
the middle ground...
         if all the would be sadists could work
in meat-processing factories...
too cute to be a cat:
or a dog... a cow can't whimper from
both the pain of the pain inflicted
and all that heap of attaching points
of being your extension of it being petted...
you herd cows...
you herd sheep... you can't exactly herd
dogs...

  you can't exactly keep or put a leash
on a cat.. you shouldn't really put a dot
above an ıota... or ȷanıce...
ı'm pretty sure the full-stop declared ıt:
we would lıke the questıon mark (?)
and the exclamatıon mark (!) to keep their
dots...

then again... my delights galore...
seeing two sadist conspire...
they were quiet open about it...
smear some lipstick onto a frog...
and set it ablaze...

       i do wonder... do i have enough
metal-******* capacity to draw that one
out from my ******* of malnourished imagination
or whether: yes... this really happened...
and...

   i got away with: adam and the ants...
prince charming...

and some duran duran...
  and some the cure and some depeche mode...
and... she must be in her 40s... nearing her 50s...
and she would be an auntie for me...
and no...

     that (out of the ashes rmx) of type o negative's
blood and fire...
    less the bat-curse and more that
resurrected crow...
     of no -man suffix to give him a marvel:
mar-vel: marvelous-veal? entry...

traci lords - control
        sepultura - roots ****** roots...
    orbital - halcyon...
           faithless - woozy...
                     geezer - the invisible...
sister machine gun - burn...

             *****'s day out - what U see...

and everything, everything i might want
to hate about a milkman's son...

there's too much music to look-out
for any sort of in-crowd...
one mention of:
in the court of the crimson king...

sergei prokofiev: crusaders in pskov...
or... alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
holst: an ode to death...
               death that great *****-**** or something?

death that ******* into a tissue
and a baptism after and all prior:
on the throne of thrones and from that
the great debate: was it genocide
will it be ******...
eggs without yoke?
     is that the "debate"...
or is that: one poultry abortion a day...
keeps the cholesterol at bay...
and of course the apple...
to combat the dementia of:
never / not out of Eden...
with or without the hebrew poetic route
of congesting a period of time
to mark out: the better parts
of what's still memorable...
before the acid of humanity audacity
and outright stupidity...
  does the second half of the erosion...

foals' - my number...
           foster the people - sit next to me...
anything by: cage the elephant...

!!! - chk chk chk (strange weather, isn't it?) -
jump back...

the velvet underground -
all of tomorrow's parties...

kyuss - demon cleaner...
  
     just saying... it's hardly expected...
this is the sort of music i'd hear...
if i didn't collect records?
on a whim... this brvo delta d.j.: good yarn!
of whittle amsterdam would
somehow spin... a wooden shjip's:
flight?

        wow: oh wow now that's my first
summary of: really?!

the historical argument for the accelerated
whims of balding men
in the harems of sheikhs...
that they really are the ******* emblems
of horses but otherwise...
the castrated wind-sacks of *****
when it comes to pedigree cat or
dog breeders willing a monopoly...

some come with the gories: and ghost rider...
there's just too much and there's
also "too much"...
sputnik 'nick of time of the candy-floss
barbed wire when you just sat
through a sobering visit to the dentist...

you will count your pearls...
and that tongue...
that mollusk of yours...
  well: wriggle wiggle wriggle and high-brow
forward through...
to the base of the bull's eye...

because by then: counting to 1
is the only arithmetic that's worth anything...
the vice barons - fuzzy 'n' wild...

trevor something - into your heart...
ulver - utriese...
boy harsher - country girl EP...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
years of denial -
film maker -
beat bizarre...

                   boris brejcha...
skip james - hard times killing floor blues...

spirit - the twelve dreams of dr. sardonicus...
never mind...
anything about vietnam...
c. c. r.: running through the jungle...

                    sam cooke and:
                             that knock-knock music...
heard once... never to be heard again...

pulp? this is *******... or we love life?
rammstein contra radiohead?
or is that all about elvis costello?
         tiresome the cool...
        but beyond reaching 70 and your language
is still as practical as everyday
of charles bukowski...
without any of those complications
of the comfort-riddled life...
which can always allow for an ink
and some... paper...
but then: what are guilty pleasures
by then?

        talking? thinking?
being the impractical dog-walking man?
oh god... i can think of being paid
to be a movie critic... or a restaurant
sabatouer... also a critic...
by now: as long as the hands are washed
that prepare any food...
is fine: oh a mighty O mighty fine by my
standards for identifying:
the universal / a franction of a billion
strong population sort of china-       man...

nothing smart about singing
about my initials...
m c e...               energy = mass x speed of
light squared...
so... what sort of equation has it at:
speed of light cubed?
there must be a speed of light cubed equation...
given light comes from stars...
and the stars aren't going anywhere:
apart from their usual disco orbit...
there must be a...
                                     space travelled...
time concerning = energy and...
something that invokes the speed of light cubed...
rather than squared... 2-dimensional...
there needs to be something concerning...
the nature of light in a 3-dimensional
posit... pivot...

               i am this far from wanting
any credentials to have to be psychopathic about
a heritage and a future that's a bit like
about that fortune and fame of the man:
not the buddha not the christ...
but the man who won the crown of king anon
when fermenting the clarity cocktail from
a bunch of near-rotting stalks of wheat
and getting drunk on rotting apples
borrowed from the mules and the bears...
that would stumble into their caves
and hug their shadows...

                       christopher young:
the hellraiser II: hellbound soundtrack...
or dead can dance: into the labyrinth...
or hammock's ketonic...
the full album through and through...

                        pulp that never became an oasis
or a blur...
as expected... winning... losing...
but somehow forever meshed into
the ongoing democratic fortune-wheel
spin-off... the minor influences congregation
dynamic... congesting the cogito...
          
                 wins! wins? a comment section...
the loser...
                  keeps on writing...
because... here's to elbow nudging...
   as the hands are riddled with hand-signs
for the deaf... and... that would truly be
the better part of anyone's guess...
        hallucinating braille come mid-air traction
of: things heard over a megaphone.

Is my lesbian closet empty as I ******* like a ******? As I ******* like a lame Detroit ****** in heat? Am I under mortal Comanche threat from paganly-merciless...

TERROR ******* OF THE DEEP? [Terror ******* of the deep have exceeded the depth of Russia's Kola Super Deep Bore Hole.]
   O.T.M.A. remains scotched & scorched, dismembered & lapsed, yet Mashka & Tashka are the 2 (or the 1's) I love. Scars aren't prone to bleeding. Wounds bleed. Scars are healed wounds. Do horse-breeders die in horse-breeding accidents? [I know her by a stage name, my angel in funny dress. Will she let me kiss her belly button? I can only guess.] I'm too stupid to mean stuff that's the opposite of the stupid stuff I say. Putrid things rot fast, flushing shallow. Let's do the fun parts of suicide that make suicide fun.

[Terror ******* of the deep have exceeded the depth of Russia's Kola Super Deep Bore Hole.]
   O.T.M.A. remains scotched & scorched, dismembered & lapsed, yet Mashka & Tashka are the 2 (or the 1's) I love. Scars aren't prone to bleeding. Wounds bleed. Scars are healed wounds. Do horse-breeders die in horse-breeding accidents? [I know her by a stage name, my angel in funny dress. Will she let me kiss her belly button? I can only guess.] I'm too stupid to mean stuff that's the opposite of the stupid stuff I say. Putrid things rot fast, flushing shallow. Let's do the fun parts of suicide that make suicide fun.
   "Your fingers won't save you," the glove salesman amputee said. College psychology designates social strife as the primary causal factor to melancholia while ignoring vitamin deficits & blood sugar peaks & valleys. Typical Western women MUST assume superiority in all things. The Rest Room (2017) : "You haven't used a rest room till you've seen The Rest Room..." The Rest Room depicts modern facilities like no other film. Its raw, grim grittiness will have you reaching for brown paper towels. Our love is cooler than a cooler of ice. Our passion is more passionate than a bed that has just been blessed by the pope. We run in a field without having our clothes on. I almost stepped on a snake. I wish you'd brought your bra, we could've put mulberries in it. Is that a cop? RUN *******! I didn't enjoy my 1, and only, proctological exam. Too many young people have embraced the dark side, the left-hand path. Avoid these death-cultists. I sleep with a dog nearby (not a lass of the dog-eating class). He would love me for my canine qualities. He would say, "this guy is my people." An alert immune system doesn't forgive & forget. It remains vigilant to **** pathogens. Puppies bounce on concrete surfaces because of their fuzzy fluffiness. They're much softer than horses, pups are, and easier to pasteurize. It rains a lot in Oregon. It rains a lot on Oregon, too. Oregonians groan too much from prickly heat that compounds the miserable V.D. that they implement to destroy the wholesome reputation, & crotch-cricket ****** vitality, of ultra-flitty Washingtonian lushes.