Sweet is thine picnics of knee chaps, red and white little squares,
Reds ant, cant, for thee to me is a pain in the ass.
Race horse pace, over here sweet love, bake a pie and explain t’ me why.
I am not good for you,
Is it not true, for thine is mine to keep?
In rich steep cells o’ ma modest breast.
Inhale pachouli, a scent of war.
I will find you.
Where ever thee chooseth to flee.
Stalk and mark chalk marks of the black body bags, big is the streets that stalk the Ripper’s zipper.
Jest me not fool!
I am capable of such cruelty, to me, thee shall see we are inevitable.
Hot sands of Africa’s deserts fill not thy heart?
Come!
Slave to thy thirst, drenched in mine own depression.
Obsession you said to thee, for hath not thy stave off mine own entity?
Identity, me thinks not of you, as me.
Such bitches in black hole spotless ties of ribbon in pathetic castles.
No.
No.
Thy will be done, up me.
My nave.
I will feed up thy liver, deliver you unto thine mystery of independent misery.
Sleep with me, for thou hast not cast one word or swipe at the type of abuse used against the wall and halls of silk clad nobles.
Afraid?
Yes I see it.
Here the spirits in thy multi colored encoded braille.
Derail are you?
Suckle my tit for it shall be worse on the morn on the after mathematical, explosion of your third eyeball.
Cry not!
Hath I not done all to comfort you.
Is it not true, t’was you?
Who chose to come down the trail of steep declination,
Tell me.
What did thy mind thinkest amongst the dirt filled balloons of time. That thy will fly away unharmed. unsoiled?
Surely tho must have some kind of intellect, to suspect obvious black roses in quartz vases.
You are an idiot.
Symbol of deaths vicious appetite, conceived in chests, hairless bodies.
This is the nightmares wail, black caped witches was the corn rows with crows, cawing thine name.
What is thy name.
Nay say not, you know it,, for I have taken it, your tongue. Speech defines us from the four legged creatures doomed to pull tricks of amusement.
What doest that, me to you?
A beast!
Raw meat and half cooked flesh, the whites of your eyes encircle my arousal.
For sale, who said I could have my cake and eat it too?
You my little beast, chain to cinder blocks, steal around town for a bit.
More games to play.
Well that was some kind of fucked.
Arty yea.
Arty farty.
Yea I can do it.
Super smart, shit this trip.
On the streets is where the heat is, down tempo biz makes my G spot.
Drizzle with
Artistic anal androgynous construction zones,
infrastructure sutured into surgical steel genital piercing, screams in the Plug In.
Yea I can do smart art.
Hold my nose, and swallow chase it down stream in a blur of magic in mushrooms, full to you and your zooming in to close to the thrust I must trust at some point if I’m to be able to see.
The world as it could be, but not be.
But after any statement negates the beginning point of an argument.
Augment my disappointment at understanding I wasn’t born with a dick.
I wish I was, cause, I could run around with it in my hand, shooting blanks and a have an excuse for it.
Bullshit!
I do it any way, transgendered hotties in pleather, send me running for clear skins. lip stick and lubricant.
Damn what a strap on!!
Let me lick you belly button, turn on the disco ball and dance. dance. dance to non existent lines manufactured by, powers at be to control you and me.
Ceilings high as the sky, pink granite on cliffs of grant applications.
Sensation with stagnation, I hold onto a grudge, trudging through my resentment.
Deep contempt lives in tent like villages,
Refugees of reconciliation, veiled from day lilies, orange fire, sun yellow, black gold.
I hold bottles of pills, will some day free me of some kind of disease, weeks, days, years go by.
Who am I?
To question what it is that exists between you and I.
I don’t understand, can, it be possible to feel with out and kind of panic.
Your hand on my back pushing me forward.
Towards what?
I could speculate, maybe articulate, frustration, emotional dehydration.
Unplanned is the hand in the pie of my destiny, or close proxy to the boxes, four years later still unpacked begging for attention,
Much like the memories I covet, ignore and store, behind a black door, i my land mines of a mid might and tight locks of codes encrusted, greased meat, slide down polar ice caps.
Melting any kind of resistance to, what it is they want me to do.
High art.
Just what is that?
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare..... WUB
Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB
WUB
Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
High art.
What is that?
Not sure but. I did to time in art school.
Remember what I said about the word but?
A lot coming out, not much going in.
Burn out, wipe out, burn out, cop out.
I wonder how many times I will repeat what myself?
There’s is only so much in the shelf called garbage can brain jam.
Shake my dreads like a wet dog, rattled some marbles, ball barrings full frontal lobs of lobotomies, fried up in cast iron pans.
High art, high art, high art......well I think it starts with a conception, not particularly a deception.
Execution a second thought.
Maybe?
High art, ideas, idiocies?
Translation: extremely stupid behavior, well that’s kind of harsh, I mean swimming in a bog marsh of alphabet soup, with out shoes.
High art.
What is that?
Oh wait I got it wrong, shit maybe should get rid of the bong.
It’s High Culture.
What is that?
Hmmm maybe start with
Donno.
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare..... WUB
Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB
WUB
Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
Scamming out deeps beats, god I’m horny for something valid to say.
Ok Culture lets start with typing like a fool into google, the crazy slut must,
cut the grapes full of crap, while I strap myself silly.
Culture, culture, culture, you know if culture is spelled many times on the pin head of a fruit fly wearing, acid washed blue jean, and Betty Pages’s fish nets on it’s head.
The word starts to lose it’s meaning and ambiguity, toward nudity, invades high rationing, I mean reasoning, in, I mean high art a fuck!
High culture.
Fuck I’m horny for a good idea.
C.U.L.T.U.R.E.... let’s see if the internet knows what it means.
• a particular society at a particular time and place; "early Mayan civilization"
• the tastes in art and manners that are favored by a social group
• acculturation: all the knowledge and values shared by a society
• (biology) the growing of microorganisms in a nutrient medium (such as gelatin or agar); "the culture of cells in a Petri dish"
• polish: a highly developed state of perfection; having a flawless or impeccable quality; "they performed with great polish"; "I admired the exquisite refinement of his prose"; "almost an inspiration which gives to all work that finish which is almost art"--Joseph Conrad
• the attitudes and behavior that are characteristic of a particular social group or organization; "the developing drug culture"; "the reason that the agency is doomed to inaction has something to do with the FBI culture"
• grow in a special preparation; "the biologist grows microorganisms"
• the raising of plants or animals; "the culture of oysters"
oh.
Well that’s a lot of help, for fucksakes!
Take a look at the fucking book!!
Definitions, description, a prescription for Pros act.
Ha!
Did ja git it!!!
High Art, Culture, what ever.
The horny for a good idea just went limp, really really limp.
Sucking on my dying spliff.
Dimples in lower cheeks covered by flowered underwear, could care less about high culture.
Kind of like me, sitting here staring at the fucking screen trying not to scream.
Fuck I’m horny for a new idea.
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare
Kick...... Snare..... WUB
Kick.kick...... Snare.... WUB
WUB
Kick,kick...... Snare.Snare.Snare.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare.WUB
Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick.Snare. Snare....Wub, deep dub step.
Wanna go for a run?
No not really my idea of fun.
All though running from this project. and let it be, to stave of ghosts that haunts the cat bowl.
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