Thursday, February 24, 2011

Psychological Warfare

I journeyed into Riven Haven Dale (New Haven) today; the nearest concrete metal shard platform breathing down one's neck at Walled In Pond near Ansonia Town proper located in a gully.  The treading of the rock and metal was brief.  Apparently sailors who land along city shores need no more than half an hour or less to make a determination as to why they find themselves on a boat amidst a blue desert and the ill-humored miserable misery makers that a large majority of women typically are around men is no reason to walk the sinuous straight twisted ways of society.

As one treads along the city streets one periodically experiences irony and hears things about themselves, that coincide with their recent thoughts patterns, that fit seamlessly into the moment.  Periodically too one will receive "um" or "uh" or a grotesque unwholesome laugh in passing, or the heels of a woman will be dreadly trampling behind one; marauding and lustful for power and dominance. 

But perhaps I am hearing their heals clicking along the walk wrongly.  That is simply the essence that I intuit and sense from the noise.  And it is consistent.  So too is passing by an Audi or BWM.  An aura is emitted that draws one's attention to it; somehow.  For what reason these sounds and objects are stigmatized I cannot fathom, and as far as I know myself, I have no inferiority issues with women or a feeling of lack of wealth as money is worthless to me.  What then is wrong with these sounds, noises, things, cars, stigma impressions? 

Keep in mind this is simply the outward world or foreground.  Underneath, insidiously creeping into one's mind is a negative leech set to break-destroy for control and drain and drain and drain.  Isolate and destroy is the tactic as hate, ill humored-ness, individualism led egos, disgust, nausea, and a grotesque American idolation of the common man causing him to have no respect for authority thus brooding hate and disgust in an equal leveling fashion; a cycle.  Their energies are cast in cynicism and they are swayed by the negative undercurrents perpetuating this debacle. This grimness, this automatic-programmed blackballing essence and social practice consuming everyone's mind ("lets all ream each other with petty exclusionism and base form of cynicism") emanating from some core some nexus - which I hypothesize is the noise of the herd and a sixth sense or quantum mechanical entanglement allowing or permitting the transference of herd noise - is fascism, negative power, depressed melancholy power.

And of course there are the complacent pleasant mellow ones with ugly smiles and unwholesome laughs who are agape when one does not wish them a good day.  The double pronged fork of the nexus is thus this.  A filthy prosaic lame complacent bandwidth from the herd that reminds one of happy little birds tweeting on a bright vernal morning, a gross narcotic akin to watching politics on the television.  And people are swayed with this foul bad air of prosaic smugness and well being and are absolutely mercenary and brutal in it's enforcement - the "soft" (grotesue) side or resting place from the hateful base form of cynicism - a tired withered break from the machine fascist state insidious isolate and destroy protocol of the mind much spoken about above by Linkin Park in the song above and also in the work of George Orwell, 1984: Big Brother; and obviously many other places.

"They don't like you", "Not f***ing funny", "They don't like that", are refrains regularly running through my mind breeding producing, inducing in me in everyone the typical American a**hole, the ill-humored, basely cynical, grim fascist mind set.  And not just these words but a silent eye watching scrutinizing making ugly and a mess of everything:

But I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
It's like a face that I hold inside
A face that awakes when I close my eyes
...
A face that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is hearing me
Right underneath my skin
...
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin
...
I know I've got a face in me
Points out all my mistakes to me
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first but I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
Everybody has a face that they hold inside
...
The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me
~Paper-cut by Linkin Park~
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."
- Albert Camus


If I had not like Camus been exposed to "invincible summer" I would have no perspective in which to approach the spectacle and ills and ailments that I have mentioned in this post and would have thought them normal and status quo.  There are nurturing hands out there and protective spiritual forces.  I simply cannot make any sort of determination as to where the nexus of this evil draining leech of a force emanates from.  I am locked and loaded for battle except there is no battle field only herd noise shadow hauntings of the mind.  Thus psychological warfare. 

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Poem of the Day

Seagull Pebbling

Machine saw blade cutteth through arm - raw
Mean youth I saw
Nast ill intentioned gank giggles gunky
Accompany cruel rock throw at gull
Pebble to hand I too did take
Bird instinct, what sort of make?
And throw did I too
Stolidity, unmovedness, obliviosity met my view
But why standethed bird thus
Instinctless without fuss?
Broken? noble? stupidity?
Pained, frenzied throwing ended in death - teared cupidity

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Celeste $&$ Burchee Cuervos


Celesta and Burch

ON xeric wh}r{iTe tropical sinZds..l..
Celesta eveR clish. ..e
ButT diestint milandrazse...
S]A[t[T[ PaF{V]-_Tron_-,' ob-livarious, to pas{T}s thus.... w~hiles...

Two-2- seamless-ly joined
Sunlight lit anointed
Innocent, blessed moments
Purity Grace dpecoreium Accordp

Celesta:. abpdowmenT s-kin barring veurtical drid jaiet b-B-p....lack mark]H[ings - - l - - ...
Razoxreic blidei-Q-ic mackh-. ..ing.. . -_
Toss tur]N[ed on sand[Z] S.)0(.S.
Resles... ..F.. ...

PA-Tron: eye,s s,haldowed biyi hatic - 
Mind F-14 Tom-ToM-catE... AFterburn-ER... glow-ic -. ..
...Silence..
A-b-s-orbing with.-.out notice
B-lack dried glxeric
Un_a-wA)r(e T}ha{T
Citi_-_DelL hade Fall]F[n

Patron, then blind to fated,
Unacknowledged tryst, 
Awakens...
Later realizing
Life's perfect moments
Passed
In memory etched
Now, moment by moment,
In Celestial ether, life-T.H.I.S.-sketched

Friday, February 11, 2011

Dire Wolf Core

One wicked night in Portland Oregon I entered the Dire Wolf Core of the Exotic Chemical Breathing Machine Ceiling Sky God.  The Dire Wolf Core permitted me to artificially highjack it and call it a tin-o-corn (can-o-corn for baseball lovers) and said, "Listen up (like Jabba The Hut's little funny jester creature that R2D2 accidentally electrocuted out of necessity in the movie Return of the Jedi), we - planet earth peoples creatures, plants, and all machines of nature and technology - are going to the stars or we are destined to be a suicidal spirit essence soul intergalactic Hel bound planet that will never play Mech Warrior 2 with the Grey aliens."  The Conclusion: Still to Come.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

...Freijeao's }S}p[r[ing Maiden... Pre-MA-Vagass...

Manna-thol herb crest guarded precariously
By Freyja's two cats and boar Hildisvíni
Embracing pompous crown

Scintillation, ember, smoke abound
Chemicals enter blood
Incipient pose contra wall facing west
Freyja's spring maiden beckons to my side
By manna-thol herb leaf tiara-ed

A junk laugh slips from my lips
Dreadn(not)aught Amerikan 'I'm sorry' uttering slips ensues

Silence presides as I turn away
To black, dried, dead flower from vernal season past
Death be my maiden, mistress, confident, and brother
Be gone primeval primavera vision
What business have thee here?

Two days later, vernal abruptness resounds resolutely
The trith-truth is quiet behind my aplomb-less, harsh, coy greeting to ageless maiden
To deaths temple were then sacrificed Red blooming flowers of a winter cactus so long bare
Winged skull on my T-shirt now too feasts on ireenic Redp rosapeettalL FFAllin-o- t...o its mouth and s}tuck---..---
In this spring time farel.l.l.

Short Bio ~or* A note on publishing


 I am a destructivic-distrue-n-creativic functionalistic-atum-isic poet-tick.  A wittic wit-tick, engineering mathematical boredom probage dull bag vapidity scorched by surreal astral luminary yielding essence ether slice-ic dice-ic wordic triflictulationative-izing poesia -  poetical fruadulence inadvertant due to celestial lathe milking process - aim-ed at wooing cooing Gaea Crone Witch Goddess, essence ether supersticiousic experimentalizing, to catch a silent blaring coo echo report to validate purity of organic transmission frequency signal and to ponder the deformative, twisted, bentedness, of the honesty of trith (truth) and existence of bitty (beauty) for the sake of destructification by tearing tears at the hand of distorted trith and bitty.

A few came forth - impulsively - perhaps wrongly - and saw a shimmering Dathem Genthen Dorphin Spreker lit lighted - me: a nihilistickism word brander brendatic fighting academic moth infested pages with word nihilism - in front a their countenances glowing.   In other words, I am a tail pipe sucker, black burn face off, whoop whoop whoop, gas mask masked organic toxicity living in Pleasantville at 70 degrees Fahrenheit.  Trith and bitty frowned-fawned-acknowledgeded  this undertaking after I turned away from their talismans and scarabs for bearing themselves so nakedly.

Boo!  Boo! Boo who hoo. Spreaketh the wax owl candle. Cry tear nast nesty naizzy crizzy crazzy crazy!  And then, the surreal astral luminary, or maybe star essence, scorched my mind again leading to my quaranteen in Awol Risk Bedlam Ward or simply a hospitalization.  Or rather, what I like to call my witch trials due to the absolute absurd rationailty - sanely sane be my motto - of the Poison Toothed Heads, or rather psychiatrists, who thought me to be wrong, abnormal, sick, incapable to handle my own affairs, as I screamed my scorched head off at them, incipient inferno, which of course is only acceptable when one is locked down in captivity, the Awol Resort of sorts, like a wild beast, able to yell there.  Screams are carefully guarded these days usually relegated to a performance or official stage setting like a concert or drama scene.  Yell on the streets too flagrantly and carried off though shall be against thy will and roughly so.

The warm machine, humanistic age guardian, normalizing the decadent, cancerous, grey concrete metal machine sludge of a civilization,  will cover every reach of this place with an alloy platform - one of these days - and hence my toxicity and gas-masked-ness and superstitious-ic sniffing of acid rain pine needles and sipping of the Hermaphroditic Gaea Which Crone Goddess's-Bandit Clown Oil- Father Earth hybird caw-cawk-tail brew.  Crazzy crazy haizy hazzy be I?! A witch trial I say, a witch trial. The Gaea Which Crone Goddess told me so.

Anyhow, I have strayed from the point, which I can't help doing as all people ever do is talk like machine robots - "all set", "allright", "ok" [and every grey bilge conversation that can possibly grow from such soil]- and interrogate tactful-lessly about ones origins and what ones business is, as if one always needed an excuse ex-cuss or reason to be sitting there under the Big Brother eye - in utter solemn seriousness.  And for a change of pace, yap and yip and yep about what kind of sprocket they are and where they are plugged into the machinge grid, girl fabricated image aphrodesiatic, hynotic, deprivationalation, toxic tonic narcotic,  and the grand hypnotic specticle Sport, once they have properly scrutinized each others grey dim grimness.  And to dash interaction with a finishing stroke, cast, throw, burp, emit a "charming" little Amerikanic grunt laugh, that sounds like, what I call a Junker Call, that is, I guess, supposed to be a charm or charming?

And the reason I presume the sun star surreal astral celestial luminary scorched my mind out was due to my inability to swallow the machine protocol matrix (which I "grid" to maintain and exist and breath) which made me so sick that I started spewing up anihilitic toxic slice-ic dice-ic wordic sludge due to the machine griddings and sprockets within  me unable to engage, establish, and sustain a slavery/worker lifetime protocol programatic.  And thus I deem these novice, green neophyte attempts at poetizing: my Poet-tick try-sings, like songs - directed at Nobody and Noone - my two grandest of companions.

I also I didn't want to disappoint the humanic machine bots who spoke to me, off hand, ironically and randomly, about what my task was to be, and, that really it was their machine nature that prompted them to think I was a poet or maybe rather a creative fraudulent poser.  And by the way who needs another poetry book today by some toxic hurling pen scribbler with greatness breaking his spine in two that some dud will read and propagate dudiness all the world over.  Then I spoke with Nobody and Noone, and my auotpilot will - auto-mechanistic - gridded this writing, and my two ace-os-e-ats reminded me how much I like little protocol humanic droids running around and how junked out junker sludge was the ignition spawnic hole to  fate-ic anihiliticus treadic poetic chantic rants and thus the coalescence of this prance-ic dance-ic muse-ic song. I do feel like Farenheit 451-ing or Alexandra-ing the place half the time.  Half the time...Incipient confliction...

Monday, February 7, 2011

Super Duper Biggest Mega Giant Boredom Probe Ever Bowl or The Super Bowl Channel Monopoly Squeeze Staleness

Mono-tonatic-chromatic humorless colorless uncreative dead putrid announcers, obviously covert members of The Flat Earth Society fake laughing behind closed doors, greeted borified the television viewer of the Super Bowl ---.  Many ex-players-coaches from the league who have no verbal license but a big gigantic mega titanic super massive bloated near gravitational implosion star celebrity face - that lulls petrified minds, unfortunately, to no harder decayed end - assume the announcers helm.  There is a single channel monopoly on super bowl broadcasting rights hence the staleness - politics aside.  Perhaps the blandness in the audible aspects of viewing is what this country demands.  Perhaps this country is the guardian of the Flat Earth Society.  There are is a plethora of cloaked esoteric insider silent banshees doting lights shades or sun glasses, because they think they become invisible when they wear them, and we all know they would never tell us they are the guardians of The Flat Earth Society - heaven must bid or forbid one or the other.  No, I take that back: mind petrification erasure due to borification and being mind-spirit hammered flattened to beyond death's death, a living breathing blood sack body aside, by cloaked rogue dirty laughing insatiable gold producing grubbin mud sacks hiding esoterically somewhere with money filled wallets secretly worshiping pancakes for total control is the American way.
The commercials reeked and were twisted and skewed in wrong directions.  I will not go into extensive full detail but will give a few examples.  The baby E-trader full diaper mature stinky emissary from E-trade hybrid had a pet cat named Pepper.  The name was responsible for the sneezy weezies obviously-obviously the joke.  However, at the end, where the punch line and real laugh ha ha aspect of the commercial shoulda taken place the ding bat babe was entirely lacking aplomb or playing a nasty off note very likely to spite viewers and cause laughter at something not funny which is funny to devious evil commercial writers who were probably lamely watching normal folks for laughs and thus got off on their hideous petty little trick.  Are these people really anti-funny joke ha ha?  Or is there simply no person in the country who can write a decent joke catered to the general public during months of preparation on a huge budget or even at the very least plagiarize one from an already established joke book?  Or, a final option, the minds of the people living under the Flat Earth Societies Guardianship are so petrified-borified and broken that their sense of humor must be catered to in this abortive manner.  I am leaning towards the petty fascist backed jokester myself. The game announcers have never heard of humor ha ah ha funny in their lives I am convinced - as an aside.  I mean at least have the diapered envoy of E-trade ask his kitty cat if he wants some salt up his nose.  Then perhaps he would diligently assiduously attend to serious serious serious humor business by pouring some salt up Pepper's nose causing the cat to run away in a whirlwind fur ball and shocked meow.  Then he coulda made any kind of joke, word play, etc.:  1.  Bye bye salty.  The cat looks back.  The e-trade diaper sack then tries to get the salt out of the nose of Pepper because he lost so much money in the stock market and cannot afford to buy more. 2.  Pepper was just ah-ah-ah-salted.  3. I now deem thee Pepper my e-tradic ill wiz bear: Salted Bull.  Etc etc etc.  Most commercials, viewed by one Jafe Verengren, who was consulted for this blog post, suffered from some dis-functionality or another of this kind or another or another or another.
And one more lame commercial:  Wendy's: "You Know When It's Real..." or not...  One man sitting munch lunching smacks his counterpart wing sir doodle snouwzer man in a Classic Hollywood manner.  So "Real." Excessively lame.  Cheapens manliness especially during Super Squeezed Bowl Hours.  Regrettably reeks of Classical Holly-Petrified-Mind-Wood.  The fault.  And the corrective:  Show out takes of one man with a red black blue purple jaw or whatever and what his reaction was from being smacked aside the face by his co star and vice versa.   Have Chuck Palahniuk, the writer of Fight Club, give lessons and sponsor the commercial.  Disgusting un-lawful use of the phrase "You know when it's real" under such circumstances.  Abortive imaginary land akin to Holly-fake-Wood straying broken minds further and further into the land of no return or pretend realm prison.  Enough said.  Lame.  Or... I was sure whacked a good one in the face by the whole Wendy's Fake-fraudulent-counterfeit abortive-wunderland anti-contra-abortive-spectacle.  Some savvy lawyer should get litigious and finish by causing the drafting of a US Supreme Court resolution banning such reality erasing spectacles and Wendy's should be put on probation from the advertising business indefinitely and made an example of.
The beef meat of this article and the tight ends in the game and the "emotions" of the locker room is solid.  Thank Thor the players found a way to "bottle them up" (emotions) and bring whatever that means onto the field.  And yes the homo-eroticism was intentional.  Lesbians your day is over...Go shut the fuck up, literally, on the island of Lesbos for about a generation or two while men slap ass amongst themselves since you do not want yours slapped any more obviously.  Not directed at you fem-nails, but, slapassing in male sport is solid and well accepted when a team mate needs a pick me up or a congratulations free of charge, and, not a mean ill humored snarl from some abortive-fem-nazi-poser-vagina-sex-control-freak-power-binger.  In order to avoid eliminate stale mono-chrome-tone flat voidical vapid banal announcers-voices of the game-commentators, allow for some competition.  Run the super bowl on 5 different stations or even networks and let each channel and team of announcers duel it out for the best ratings. The monopoly flattens kills vibrancy.  And the hyper rapid brevity of the game is abrasive.  Does the establishment have no time to comment on a single touch down HURA celebration dance prance tread for hours and hours and hours.  That is how it should be.  The Super Hyper Rapid 30 Second Wunder bowl is it? (No cheerleaders shut the fuck up now - literally and figuratively!!!  Men do not care.  Go have an abortion or something...like Marla...)  Where is the grand style?  The Chairman of the League had his 7 year old son write his 30 second gunk ass of a speech at the trophy presentation because he had no time to write it himself nor memorize or practice it beforehand ...or... he is also secretively a consulate member of the flat earth society that only rich people are a part of and thus essence leak abortively excited fans to death by creating an entertainment vacuum: the borification of the mindless zombies. Where is the Super in that?  Go figure...go figure...


Friday, February 4, 2011

Real Reality TV Dreams

Neo-ic-Nazi White Supremacists and Black Gangs and Hispanic Carteleros

Quarantine these three parties in a similar location such as a prison in order to ease the monitoring of zone infractions and have cameras and allow tv camera crews in to watch, document, and create a reality tv series of the three groups waging war or whatever they do.  Instead of cells create or allow for small villages.  Provide provisions but  make those involved responsible for their own welfare and upkeep.  A new form of entertainment, allow drugs in for a currency and weapons but no guns in order to make gladiator-esque old fashioned warfare.  This will help aid the problems with prison overcrowding due to casualties and deadly injuries.  What else is to be done with such energies but to make the best reality tv yet.  Each state can have a team or what have you and the dominant teams will ultimately be paired with other dominant teams and so on and so forth unless people are up for a slaughter or something... Dangerous criminals should not go to prison as a retirement and run their empires behind bars.  If they are who they are, they will have to fight and be skillful at survival in their containment.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Decorum Poem and Ice Princess Post Fussion Synthesis

Amerika American A-night-mare-ic:  Wicked ill humored grim stock homegrown a**hole fucted heads abound.  "They" maraud clamp down at every opportunity blurring propriety to the extent that it is savage base low always whining to some higher authority for backup and cover fire and justification.  Stories are warped embellished twisted crossing the proprietary lines as far as possible: fascist protocol and the form war takes today.  "Hell is other people." (Sartre) And locked into the machine grid be all.  "They" is ever present and yet nobody is "they."  This machine kills fascism?  The needle of cynicism enters the wound.  "If you want to get out alive/Run for your life." (Three Days Grace).  And even if This Machine did happen to kill fascism, what would that entail?  I mean what would the world be without wicked grim ill-humored people?  And what would the victor want with a bunch of "I am sorry" dreadnaught(not)s waiting for the opportunity to ream each another?  I just wanted to walk at Walled In Pond during the night.  And whats this?  I risk going to jail for trespassing?  One Draco just ran into the wall of The Citi-ah-dell hard.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Walled In Pond and The Ice Princess

The Ice Princess - Persephone's vibrant white ice-icicled essence sister spawned from the death of Ymir, the first frost Giant of Norse Mythology, who gave birth to man from the dredge sludge of his sweaty armpit - frosts and frigidizes Walled In Pond.  While I was walking the ice sheets covering Battered Hill around the frozen Walled In Pond, the gravel underneath car tires sounded menacingly-ominously full of terrible purpose in the distance.  In Alaska, the strongest healthiest largest wolf packs are hunted down by helicopter patrol and shown their exit from this earth by lead through the head.  The internal summer sun has been extinguished by the white death of the Ice Princess, the sacred heart of winter, and the sun is too far away to be seen in the sky bringing a refreshing calm to the blinding fever of the kiss of the yellow orb.  Everywhere ill humored folk disparage flaunt tout their ill humored ways cursing the Ice Princess and her magical doings.

And just the other day while I was walking the town of Ansonia, a small one street locale reminiscent of an outpost in the Wild West where duels between villain and sheriff are fought, I stopped into Bankos; the local music store.  I inquired about guitar lessons and made an appointment for the following week as plain and normal as day.  Several hours later as I was walking the banks of Walled In Pond I received an unexpected phone call from the Ansonia Police.  I was informed that I was never to return to Bankos again.  The officer made clear that this was a warning and nothing more but that if I returned to the shop there would be trouble.  Apparently the reason that the Ansonia Police called me was that someone, apparently employed or owning Bankos, had reported to an officer that I had "spoken some words" about the recent Arizona political shootings.  I asked the officer several questions as to who might have said these things but he had obviously not investigated anything and used the tip from a Bankos employee and nothing more.  What is ironic, creepy, and just plain wrong is that I never once mentioned nor was even close to mentioning anything concerning the Arizona shootings that day or any day.  In fact, I hadn't heard about and still don't even know what the Arizona shootings were? Did they ever happen?


Nevertheless, in Riven Haven or New Haven, a week earlier I had been walking with an acquaintance on Chapel Street and we had been talking about The Mad Bomber of Waterbury, whom detonated 22 bombs in New York (The Obese Puss Ridden Apple)  in the 40's and 50' and was caught after 16 years of a one man assault on the establishment whose only punishment was a 5 year stay in a mental hospital.  He had been featured in an article in the New Haven Advocate because a playwright had written a musical about him.  We were both uneasy about such talk as these days if a cat farts too loud on the street it is put down.  So perhaps, as this is perhaps how the world operates - Brahma-esque - this warning from the Ansonia Poo-lice (Police) was tied to this conversation on the streets of Haven and I was being traced by...the ominous gravel crunches under the tires of a vehicle with terrible purpose as helicopters fly over a wolf pack dispensing massacre and murder and the walls of Walled In Pond compact and compact and compact draining sunshine from my bones.

Black Bone Frigid be I as the Iridescent Calicutless Cat that hunts and haunts the Walled In Pond Enchanted Meadow hibernates in her winter-less warm lazy den and surreal blue light from the youthful fresh Blue Giant Stars of the Pleiades rains down from Orion's belt severe and hard as blue diamond tipped nails.

This incident of course opens a well of other memories and experience I have had with the Poo-lice.  One incident occurred in Haven while I was walking in front of Gotham.  I approached two police officers and bid them a good evening.  The next thing I know I am in handcuffs being frisked and my wallet is being ravaged for a form of ID.  Another night, being restless I decided to take a walk down into town, Ansonia, at 3 in the morning.  I was harassed by two officers there who asked 100 questions about why the bottom of my pant legs were wet when obviously the streets were wet from rain.  This resulted in being jailed for the night until things were cleared up and the police had made sure that my wet pant legs were not a threat to national security.  This of course reminds one of the Ray Bradbury story, The Pedestrian, of a peaceful older gentleman whisked away by a robotic police patrol vehicle for walking in the middle of the night in a similar manner.  No joke: books live.

What frustrates me most is that there is no enemy, no core, no nexus of this fascist madness to fight.  Where is the minotaur at the end of Daedalus' maze?  "This machine," providence, wherever whatever you are, do shine a ray of Apollonian sunlight on the scene and make an enemy target-able and evident not a hurricane cluster maelstrom.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Decorum: Poem of the Day


Decorum
Who are these ones so serious - absurd - folks who don't mean well
One wrong slipe-a-tha tone-gue and blam boom zoomzy
One wrong errant yell, one wrong errant spit, one wrong abnormal greeting
And thrown out tha door, Get!!!

Garbage Pail Kid Tribute