i am buddha and i am ok, you see i am the coolest dude oh yeah any day

you see my hooligan is trying to catch me yeah

but i am too cool for that, my friend

you see dudes, i party right up here

showing the after life how to party, yeah

it’s good to see tony abbott lost his battle

you see he is such a two faced old ****

working hard to make a living, putting shelter over our heads

i have found a way to party in ****** bed

everyone is living in the past with my actions, yeah mate yeah

like they judge me from when i was scared running up to my nanna

my brother stayed down there, i was a scared little ****

but i am still a good you tuber and writer and artist

and i will be the best i can fucken be

i look at the palm of my hand, and it says i have a long life line

and i have got big things happening for me mate, yeah that’ll be so cool

i am flying ,around outer space trying to catch the villain

the evil hooligan who i causing all the crime on earth

you see for i am cronus, i am saving the world

every idiot at a time

i have a triangle on my palm which means love life no matter what pressure your under

and the fact the triangle is on both palms

means i really love life, despite my schizophrenic brain saying i hate it

you see i know i am not a hooligan, but i was one in the past

but if i had my time again i would undo all the hooligan out

you see my hooligan is the itchy rashy fungus coming into my body

i don’t want it, but i have got it,and unless i try and relax, i will have to live with it

you see i really loved foxtel back then, showing all my mates some shows that are on

and i felt so normal, because people were wanting to come over to watch pay TV

because they were too poor, and i had a technology family and i was fine showing people all the good things about foxtel

you see i had my problems way back in 2004, when the ghosts kidnapped me away from foxtel

and took me to the psych ward to meet the people who are suffering, yeah

you see i liked to drink with my workmates after work ya see

cause i was a party animal, you see right now i am leaving my nasty man up here

while my nice man comes back to earth

i remember steven gasparic came to my house after getting ****** with me

we watched the footy all weekend, he left on sunday afternoon

this was back in 1997, the year the crows won the title against the saints

i said, come on sainters come on sainters you must win today

on that saturday night ya see, the broncos beat the sharks in super league

super league was ok, but the NRL is better

you see we get drunk, as we drink our hooligans away

yeah we feel so cool

In your sudden, redundant
paroxysm of rashy dreams
and itchy memories
and long, extended wailing
you old infant-hearted
lovely little mess

I stand here, stationary

Watching you kiss conductors
and straddle rails
that aren't going
far enough to see yourself
as I've seen you.

From the way that your angled
Our judgements are tangled.

A ballooned moon made Pat rashy with zona ****** zoster shingles
after filming sea-sick Tom ***** on the promontory that is ******'s
where-from Tom's homosexual sluiceway got gay, jail-house tingles
in anticipation of evil Madison Avenue's ****-marrying-**** jingles
that yellow-mark spines where, with plasma, pus-like fluid mingles
to swell the endemic ranks of central Chicago's law-abiding singles

an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...