Sidle, squat n’ piddle, still not at work.
Good bye, Shave Em Dry.
Jimmy Yancey, boppin and a clappin, ma feet in bed.
Still thick in the head.
Not a care, bare out a Monday.
Absent sounding excuses, deep south blues, grooving me.
Bleed me into deep beats n’ groove.
Warm as Mississippi mud colored skin.
Considered a sin, to dance, with a
black
man.
Peacing, jiving, grooving and moving across Muddy Waters.
England fiddling with Bo Diddly.
Pity.
Never getting it quite right.
Callin it White Lightin
Dark waters and souls, cruising your ear wax.
Max out me, music air thick, feet.
Sit up, scratching my bed head.
Monday.
Should be at work, work downstairs, painting corporate funnies, while where poka dot bunnies are lost.
On my bed head, raisins, on my over loaded shoulders.
Boulder in my bowels, blocked ideas, white bed sheet stained, with strained, and drained.
Work, behind by 5000 work, worlds, words.
Herds of night mares, pregnant stags chasing.... what the fuck!
Some idiotic schmuck riding in his Bummer.
Small penis syndrome.
We are so out of luck, folks choose to be stupid.
Cupid retired and gave up.
He thought fuck, the human race.
Chase any kind of commune sense, out of town.
Drown in your fucking oil sands.
Slow banning, freedom of speech.
Preaching from your pulpit, spit in the face of reason.
Treason and greed.
You deserve to die, while you choose to believe the lies.
Perpetuated.
And interpolated, popes smoking pipe lines from the attic to the south.
Cupid retired gave up and thought What the fuck!
Cheat younger generations, preacher and treaters of mass media.
Sepia brown, in town.
The tapes will record,
no planes to bored, Sesame seeds and streets.
Forward and backwards.
Rocking in a wasted wrapper of consumers appear call christmas.
Some how I don’t think if there was a christ, perhaps it
was more of a socialist instead of a communist, sorry I meant to spell consumerist.
So what’s up with western culture breeding vultures, little kids learn, to burn money, forget about honey.
Growing on trees, a commodity, life inexplicable.
Birthdays, and holiday’s, big boils in wallet.
Gimme gimme gimme, what do I get.
How about nothing, or maybe something money can’t buy.
No I don’t think christmass and state belong in the same house.
Maybe a mouse and catacombs.
Live a at five, burn me on the cross about Misconrodia.
Blind faith, breeds hate.
Still in bed, maybe tea might be.
A solution to the hole in my chest, left by that blond boy I walked out on.
Yes tea for me, then work, downstairs 5000 words, and worlds.
That blonde boy gaunt and haunted.
Antidote and dope, wont bring groping hopping flying squirrels.
Ambient beats of my heart, cart the sun to mid pointless sky scrapers.
I wish I brought my guitar, distraction will take me far.
Away from confusion and illusions, frustration and resolution may not be possible.
Double anxiety, breath deep and let go.
Blow out the match, catch it, observe it, let it be.
How could it be me, a tree in a back garden.
Apples on the grass, made green from envoys, of Chilli Peppers and Pearl Jammin in mason Jars.
Bluejay screams as a tabby pull at his wings.
Brings me sharp focus, on left over locust lusting, busting out of the tight corset.
Let pandora out of her box top, jeep.
Iridescent red, menstrual cycling on a herd of water buffalos.
Damn it’s cold in the center of my heart.
Part ways of curtains, a surprise on the rise.
Gimps and limp away curious, maybe interested invested.
Invented?
Maybe.
Could be.
See me.
Waste time
in line
or loe Reed.
Saving seeds from my garden
of forgotten dreams.
Reclaimed.
Fame or
shame?
Tame the woman!
She’s crazy, fuck that I thinks she’s just plain lazy!
Fourty Three!
Come see me!
On a stage, trudging through pages.
Made for what purpose?
I don’t know.
Sow or soldiers, in Afghanistan.
I am some kind of poet.
Miss Piggy was a moppet, puppet.
Whet the fuck am I doing?
Forty three, sitting a tree.
Career?
What career, I’m finished with careers and beers.
Personal identification or justification, social norms.
I’m broke, forty three jobs, time to write 5000 worlds.
Less stress in the bed head.
Yawn.
Spawn freedom, from the system.
Digestion of ones on relignoun.
Cruisin Crackbook for inspiration.
Sweatman quote, on the idiots who vote.
Steven Harper has mentioned plans to build $10B in new stadiums and malls, I mean, prisons. Fuck whatever, concrete structures with high security. + I think $60B in Fighter jets.
& if there is anyone that has serious enough issue to take up regarding these plans to move towards a safer world, they can be incriminated and imprisoned by the blank-cheque-written cops and the prison system.
So, when 'they' start bombing the rest of the world to hell, anyone who objects will have a place to live!
Ok I gotta go back to the fantasy video game, i mean, my life.
Strife and rifles, grooving spur o world deep bubstep Black Sun Empire, Hyper Sun.
Strife and rifles, grooving spur o world deep bubstep Black Sun Empire, Hyper Sun.
It’s time for lunch.
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