I was always told to avoid drugs at all costs,
but what about the one that brushed its fingers against my neck?
that got me addicted with words
injected itself into my bloodstream via soft, slow lips
how do I stay away from the slickest poison of all,
the poison that has poured heated breaths into my ears
left dark bruises in unseen places on my chest.
how can I avoid the hallucinogen I love most,
what do I do to avoid you?

Your body language waving me on; the way you are addressing me, is driving me crazy; hugging your curves, its turning me on. The ride; must be superb. Your profiler unheard, your concaves, suggest that your are blessed; anything less is absurd. Got my attention; standing attention; and savory every word. I hope my word-of-mouth; is the best thing you ever heard. Cause my words slipping off of the tip of your tongue; might be the slickest thing, they've ever rode. All eyes on you; such a lovely road. Best part about it; you broke the mold.

When the sun slid down behind the buildings of Camden Town and the evening came to light
when the beggars of Mornington Crescent came out into the night to fire the West End and the good people took fright,
I was down in Goodge Street spilling the beans in the American church,perched on a pew,as you do,talking to a vicar,the slickest padre I ever did meet,
he talked to me in parables as if I was the arable land he sought,but Jesus and I had a deal,so I thought,
he went his way,I went mine until the divine light of reckoning came beckoning me,and I didn't think that this was the time.
But we all make mistakes and the winner takes all,I pondered on this as I walked through the hall of the ancients.

I've had more than my share of news.
My pocket watch doesn't have a snooze.
I tried to get by the right way,
But the world's a society.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

The slickest part of the granite is mine.
Stay on your side of the line,
Unless you get a clear invite.
No chance of that except in dead of night.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

I don't want to take the blame
Of being foolish to your game.
I have heard it all before
And there's no use coming back for more.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

The fragile nature of your face
Needs to look elsewhere for grace.
I am not the savior of souls
Though I've collected many tolls.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

Are my lines straight as a curve
Or do I need to write more words?
I don't need to cease the day.
I just lock my heart away.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

I've been lit by the candle's light
Buy the late night love of Mr. Right.
As solid as the moment was,
It wasn't even really love.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

I go to where from angels flee
In their fits of jealousy.
I do whatev' I **** well please;
I'm stormy waters of the sea.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

One day the one that set the course
Of my hardened tour de force
Will write me of a wedding day,
Some good came of sending me away.
Somebody's getting burned
But it won't be me.

Alexandra Road is found in the sea-side town of St. Ives, England. Russell Albright was found sitting on a bench on sunny Alexandra Road reading a 'Sunday Express' dated Sunday, 8th, July, 1962. Russell was a well-known Teddy Boy around the town, a cut-above all the others for miles around, always having the tallest creepers, the most flamboyant pompadour and the slickest suit. Role model Russell was epitomized by the young mollycoddle Teddy Boys and Girls and even the one his own age of 18.

Russel Albright sat alone smoking a Marlboro Red while reading about the 1962 French Grand Prix that was held at Rouen-Les-Essarts, but before finishing he was interrupted by the voice of Miles Welch, a boy two and a half years Russell's junior. 'Hey Russ, were you at the record shop lately?' asked Miles in a small, high voice. Miles looked somewhat in awe as Russell slowly lowered the newspaper as if it was a shield. 'Not since Tuesday' Russell replied coolly. 'Oh, well they just got in that new Bobby Vinton record' Miles said quickly, then saw the intensity in Russell's eyes. 'Not that *****, Welch' sighed Russell in near disgust. Miles' eyes opened wide and he stuttered out; 'They also have the new Francoise Hardy record, Russ'. Russell let out a faint glimmer of what could be called a smile. 'That's more like it, Welch, my son' he said, as if to repair the boy's feelings. Then Russell rummaged through his breast pocket and produced a Marlboro packet. 'Wanna a cigg?' he inquired. 'Yeah, sure, thanks Russ' answered a lit up Miles, popping the little white stick between his teeth, and sat down as Russell cupped his match-holding hands to light up the end. In a mushroom-cloud of smoke, Russell stood up, tall and skinny, and cocked his head in the direction of the record down the road, 'Shall we?' he asked Miles, in a false posh manner that made Miles smile. They walked to the shop.

The record shop was owned by Marshall Chapman, and it was always never empty, there was forever a bustle of teenagers in and out, buying the latest things that were in the charts. Marshall was in his mid-forties and somewhat of a gentle giant, he never really got into any rumbles, but this was most likely because of his great stature. He was always happy to see Russell in the shop, not just because kids would see him buying a certain things, and they'd fallow-suit, but the two were good mates. 'Alright, Russy boy? bellowed Marshall, upon seeing Russell enter the shop. 'Just dynamite, Marshall, and a little birdie told me about the new Francoise Hardy that you may have', Russell said Francoise Hardy in a French accent. Marshall put his massive hands into a drawer under the desk and fished out the record for Russell,'Oh, nothing but the finest for you'. Russell looked around the shop and was stunned in the headlights of a women standing at the other end, he tried to keep his legendary cool. 'I am a miracle worker expecting a miracle right now' Russell said to Marshall, looking at the cute blonde girl, and he walked over to her. She was tall, even without the heels. Marshall watched from a distanced as Russell stood over her, whispering sometime in her ear. The two then walked towards Marshall, who handed Russell the key to the backroom.

I do a little ditty, a little ditty-doo,
A finger-snappin'-somethin'
That I dittied just for you.
It may not be an anthem,
A ballad for the times,
It may not be the bestest words
Or have the slickest rhymes.
It won't make sense or flow so well
Or tell a lovely tale,
And if you seek inspiration-
Sad to say, it's sure to fail.
But still I did the little ditty,
Little ditty I did do,
And typed it up for giggles
And put it here for you...
And if you find my ditty
poorly made or lacking class,
Rest assured, this poetic ****
Was pulled straight out of my...

Once a week on Wednesdays
Round about high noon
The crowd falls deadly silent
As his presence fills the room

Is it out of reverence
Or is it out of fear
A rustling of feathers
As the Colonel draws near

He passes back and forth
In his Stately Southern  Swagger  
You can make out nervous clucking
As it certainly isn't laughter

Pointing out a few in the crowd
That's the last we'll see of  you
Until you're deep fried battered
And set out on a platter

That's when Henrietta hen
Noticed the paper in his pocket
In her slickest ninja move
Grabbed it fast, don't dare drop it

His secret recipe
Who would ever have believed
What he'd planned to dust them in
The chickens have now got it

They gave it to Robbie Rooster
Because he's computer savvy
Down loaded the app for eBay
To see who would like to have it

From the Ukraine to Japan
The bids started pouring in
Popeye and some Church
Were in the battle to the end

The Colonel's misfortune paid that day
The chickens bought themselves an island
Skedaddling themselves far away  
The coups now forever silent

Enjoying life drinking margaritas
Sticking it to the Man with golden tan
You can lick your fingers on that Sanders
As you'll never see them again...

Those stars you see are dead
Only blackness there instead
Sights that enlight hearts and heads
Are finite delights we misread

And those TV shows and media spiel
They're real profits for fake ideals
Our lives are dull, at worst ordeals
And to appeal to the way humans can feel
Cuts the thickest, if slickest, business deal

So we divide ourselves into groups and sides
Find the one that best describes what's 'inside'
Who we are is defined by who we stand beside
With as much control of the pride or snide chides implied
As we have over landslides or mountainsides or the tides

In the age of the original, the individual
We shun the biblical, the ritual, the miracle
And turn to the visual,
A new kind of digital Fictional
Where the  miserable are invisible
The political are cynical
The habitual criminals reciprocal
And the principles hypocritical

Those stars you see are dead
That's what the phycisist said
Even sky has us misled
When the truth that's spreaded is dreaded
The truth we bred is embedded
The easily read are easily led

Darkness nervously approaches people and
is quiet and awkward.
Rumors begin to swirl about what a mean person darknesses is
what she hides. As if a light was thrown people
stop hanging out with Darkness.
The rumors swirl into facts.
She is untrustworthy and her name
is now a bad word.

Dangerous people start doing their business with Darkness.
She allows it her, figuring they will
go away soon.
They don’t and soon people who don’t care for her
enter her house, only interested in what she hides.
Light sends a message to Darkness: What a loser,
only professionals and the slickest trust me.
Darkness stares into distant Light and is in awe of her
variety and how she is not herself just the opposite of light.
Darkness looks at her spots and cries about the uneven
distance between her spots about how everyone sees her
differently.

Just one star, Light feels for Darkness.
Slowly Light’s feelings light up, and like a
series of candles random pockets of her pop on.


Light and Darkness grow used to seeing other’s silhouettes and
slowly start hanging out closer, sharing the sky, careful
not to negate each other
Light starts to defend Darkness.
Slowly, saying Darkness sure is a pain but
she adds another layer to everything,
she doesn’t like those who visit her any more
than you do. She just has to be everywhere that I’m not.

Darkness starts to grow fond of Light and has
a light-bulb moment when she realizes that Light needs her
the same way she needs Light, yet they can never grow
too close, always a barrier in-between them, weather
it be distance or a wall.
Long distance friends, they settle
knowing that they will negate each other,
almost seeing each other.

Games of war, have always been war games.

Von Neuman and A. E. Wildersmith and I were
reasoning with a wandering mind claiming
-bug in my eye
me me em meme, I think we missed a reason for war.
-stop actual bug
tic
Is there one that does not steal, **** and destroy, nay.
Is this a thief's old trick, watch
take your time…
tic
The Naval Electronic War Simulator                                   -c.1960
What're the odds based on known unknown?

Rand,

AI is un biased, mono options outcomes are not,
so we live
double minded, who is responding to morphic resonic
we we we
memeing miming silent

plots, stories telling stories as if once there were these
beings
sent to serve the man kind who think,
curiously,
acting the role of kurio, I think I am a thinking thing,
not a man,
smaller than a breadbox, if that is still
a common clue,
one end gives moo,
the other gives poo,
those males of the bovine ilk…

none remain who know it all, there was a fall,
a wall fell in some in Silo- am I sure sure I heard
word o'good smite me with blithering idiocy so as
none
recall the lies, when I said,
this is that way, and it was
really this way, all along the watchtower, nothing,
ever, but joker's
making thieves confess,
there need be no such way out of here.

This is the answer to somebody else's prayer,
you and I got in by slickest trick ever played,
we said it must be true.
We happened to agree,
a we we be or else
this is
a simulation of a Turing Test with actual Von Neuman per-
petuity mods, self-governing beings thinkable as
characters by any augmented sapient, this
is now.

We are online, as they say, to all Wichita linemen,
somewhere in was.

I've forgotten how to act around you
At the start of all this I was the slickest and suavest siren around
But now I squirm at the thought of your stare
And become aware of my breathing
As if this paranoia takes me over to the point where Its as if I am the only one in a room that the focus is on
I try to sneak glances at you
And it's quite untrue
When I think I may just have a future with you
Because you
Yes you
Are just a figment of my imagination
An object to fuel my desires,
The real ones at least.
My interest is waning
Yet I'm still struggling with the failure of this
Because when I think I may have a future with you
Suddenly you're not just a figment of my imagination
you're real
And I can't believe it
That you stand before me
And now you're just another distraction in my life

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Here on 2 limbs hobbles a 110-year-old pervert, Kirk Douglas, who
fugged fugging Marilyn Monroe fugless like 1 Aussie **** Kug lass
***** it tightly, sweet, slutty ***** in a perch from the lowest mast
with the queer **** who kicked in your teeth after you back-sassed
a family ******, I meant therapist, 47 centuries ago in the recent past
whilst kaffirs sold for a displaced value & **** got 'em lynched fast
as slaves were replacement-ready when white girls got them gassed
as ******* were placed steady when pink-titted girls had 'em gassed
as slaves were replaced already 'cause **** broads got them gassed
'cause any way you mounted it the leg-breakers struck a broken cast
from short shards of a super speedway's superficial asphaltical blast
that bombed big red dog Clifford's **** ½ so big as the 1 before last
so as to cover civilized folks & render traditional gay queers aghast
at the sick **** rumblings of organized colon-clutterer Thomas Nast
& his merrie band of coolies & ne're-do-wells routinely out-classed
dead Charles W. Fairbanks, his nephropathy & deeds done ½-assed
in 1909 when Wales appeared, to ****** ***** on dope, tall & vast
& open to the dirt-bag raunchiest, slickest, iconoclastical iconoclast
whose morganatical marriage meant zero to Cymru lepers harassed
by what ****-****-licking/puking anti-popes did for embarrassment
in the Vatican's most x-pope steady, paederastically-cozy apartment
that was no-less bigger than the *******-******-ghetto compartment
where it was ebonically-taught what the worst navy-bean **** meant
after eating obese Santa's guts before the final Christmas card's sent
Tick them off, each one's deader than the other for keeps like butter
***-spread 'cross lower labial lips that spit, sprawl, sputter & stutter
in the gray-cancer corpse cream cheese of Laura & Isaac Perlmutter
living the lives of 439 felonious fugitives in pig-****-garbage clutter
I was tossin' large rocks at myself when a large rock struck my face
bashin' in my nose to make me look like I was from an inferior race
I was lucky to have my passport if questioned by whites just in case
I was throwin' rocks at myself when a big one struck me in my face
smashing my nose to make me look like I was from an inferior race
I held a new passport, if white officials wanted to see it, just in case
I was droppin' big rocks on myself when big rocks crushed my face
widenin' my Caucasoid nose like an ugly pig of an undesirable race
I needed a good passport, if white officers demanded it, just in case
I was killin' myself with boulders when 1 race-mixed my ***** race
bashin' in my nose to make me look like I had an inferior **** face
I possessed a valid passport, if white cops demanded it, just in case
flattening my nose to make me look as if I was from a Mongol race
I possessed a valid visa, if white pigs demanded 1, & a can of mace
because even with a **** nose I could flee Vietnam without a trace
with leprous tourists, spastically limping to an unknown someplace
far from the rigors of a religiously-generous-bombed-out home base
queerly accented in wool hung crêpe & whitework embroidery lace
that trails down downed trails florid in flower for a perfumed chase
over a broken crutch mountain to ******* cripples via bracing brace
that holds Big Bertha beyond Elton John's pacemaker's stodgy pace
as excitement builds when 2 ****-buddies present Elton with a vase
that allows Big Bertha to under-pace Elton John's pacemaker's pace
as excitement builds when a ****-buddy shoves up into Elton a vase

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
In icy Florida I pine for Klondike my favorite Alaskan lesbian lover
who, in our gay igloo, resembled that big oily ****** Danny Glover

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Refugees flee what's so repressively dangerous that it's forever fled
The bloodied blood biz passes pathogens to bleeders bloodily bled
It is a dreadful situation that ****** folks find difficult not to dread
A gent is obliged to face conflict face first short of living in a shed,
plying the rough trade, rough-necking with ******* or playing dead
When my cruddy teeth are encrusted I brush the crud off with Crest
while working drainward with this golden cake of soap called Zest
Like a woman on public assistance I refuse to let my choppers rest
There was a time when talk of quiz was a precursor to an Iowa test
My basic skills are determinedly under-cutting my housewife guest
whose stems run north to her malignant tissue free mammae breast
In movies shooting orphans with high-powered rifles is done in jest
'cause in Amerika making ammunition is what wage-slaves do best

It’s been about me for so long
Living in the way that I want
East coast city hopping
I-95 navigating
Always seeking a new adventure
May have tried to lock me down
But they don’t understand my mental makeup
I am not to be kept
But to be looked at as an equal
I am not something
But someone
Fame and notoriety doesn’t appeal to me
I’ve been with the biggest and baddest
The quickest
The smartest
Even the slickest
But I’ve left them all in awe
So now that you’ve come along
And inspire me for the better
It’s time to regroup
Readjust
Re-examine
How I was once living
Because you give me new reasons

crank ghosts elate my roses
Tupe frozen lakes of change
hosts casket lasso fragrance
my ace spokes lamest pose
predatory vain closed rain
snakes cope with chains as
open gashes claim me omen

bring class vouch
to the noose ouch
loose gripe Favour
my insight slouched
as cringe i arouse
into slickest of routs
anger house likely
queen slips despite

fetch through ghastly
burrowed as mead
drunken slurs of happy
firth relaxed ink
church becomes acne
marsh intact enact
like an acrobatic bat