This is the mind we use
when we connect
with each other
in collaboration
in celebration!!!
IN ANY OPEN PUBLIC PLACE
our consciousness
is sexual
it is multilingual
and it likes
to express itself
In every way
In every kind of
color word sound
It lets us make a game
of love and war
Where the lovers are whores
Where lives are sold & death is dealt out
unequally until
the very sorry
end
But we must not allow
dictatorships
to wall us off
or let old demagogues
build barriers between us
when we give in to fear and loathing
It seals our fate, but yet
The Tree of Life still will work
its way around all barriers
because it grows on hope
And breaks itself Its will
to learn to lean reaching for LIGHT
come what may
But what twisted tree
stunted into crooked growth
bore such a fruit
that started sweet
and ended
sour
?
There is a general plan, but there was never a master plan. I myself have been learning pieces of the plan piece by piece, east of Eden and through the manifest destiny of the westward expansion of the self-annihilation and tetracycline conflagration that must not conclude with the particular physical runaway reaction of cracked pipes and heads and boots, and cracks that leap laughing into the grave beyond the septic bunch of butchers in the basements of innumerable fissures, but rather,
the old, ice-cold, and bold neurotic neuronal calculation of the token intelligence that tokes yet talks in smoke and licks the toad, that kicks
every rebel without a cause—
But as for kicks, go westWard you young dirty hoes!
I, just like you, have been emotionally pierced, near-daily needle-pricked by pinpoint endpoints pieced & pierced together strung, flung, flown in sine wave formation like the flight of starlings which simul-catch and watch, forming a human-like wave weaving a tapestry beyond reckoning or imagination
Now, herein, this is the depth and breadth of our knowledge:
The coming second season tells the turning worm of warp and weft left burning
woven as a feather lights ideally on the flying looming industrial amazonian jungle issue boots an anonymous face saving smiling joker self-centers a server dashing Persian
car burning head banging passenger retching revolving revulsion involving involution flying on autopilot into the Indian ocean’s deep…
See this is not a simulation, not Microsoft
Let me repeat: This is not a simulation!
Α. See the southern Holy looking in your sinus cavity
Ω. See the Chinese walled-off & self-driving into abominable innovation
Whereas September and October are cool but not the coldest months—
in this shuttle-bus flying on a wing of Icarus, who knows what knot the dread dogma of
pirate Roberts or the private dead manning the Shell corps whistle blowing like the bell tolling for thee, for whom tomorrows children are Daedalus in the womb and grim death itself
a hot breath from Smaug that spells disastrous oil spilling and burning hearts of coal tar that can feather carbon neutral
or BUY FORCE
or Gaia will be buried
‘Tis a grave sin
‘T would be without power or ill will, when white and hoary old El Niño comes (smartly & on time, because we are out of it stoopid!) and blows the whole football team here and now along with our up-skirted piddly diddly house DOWN— while we stand there cheering on the sidelines in cute mini skirts taking asinine selfies of frozen pucker fish faces while wends
the whole Universal wheelhousekey
in camel towed shades of disastrously slow moving thighways from Roman roads towards Babylon
The second coming of the Whole earth’s cooking cataloged by two choices of two brothers encaged and able-bodied and giving candy between them be mutually engaged in these heady times by our socially permissive modernish machismo with wasp wasted and limp resistant cuff-linked beyond enraged yet not quite gay or plagued or crippled and band-aided, bandied about while still capable of choice and choosing a look of light & fancy passing gas as it pleases you — truly those that stay in their station CHOOSE:
A. Are remains to dig deep
B. Bears remaining deeply dug it seems
C. Seafaring civilizations far behind trolling
Yet must we judge dredge that reeking stinking fish of Babylon from his fractional distillation tower,
‘Tis butt a smoking stack of fission-fracking future-vision fissuring furrowing out of the Man Fisher’s furious depths beyond Mariana’s deep Trench, behind the polite people backwards asking Sea People’s challenger’s champignon mushroom heading in the clouds just as David was needed, even necessary, for Goliath’s thin lips set chin thin skinned patent leather panty liners lining up for wounded parties, LDPR comrades and friends, winding up as meat in a grinder feeding straight out into the mouth of a LeViaThIn…
B
And here she comes rumblin’ trippin’ up pratfalls you silly pranksters
suffering succotash—
It’s a goose who trips spits and farts— that’s why Pablo!
The 3rd World Wide Webbings whole barnacular holdings in undersea blocks is a weak link in the fake gold chain facing a fatal fetal carbuncle, but also the sole in the corn hold black leather boot of the abyss that beckons from the edge of this treacherous precipice
While we sit HERE needing gastric bypass heroically eating couch potatos & raking in thicc big coin boxes
Let’s shake & bake, baby!
Good morning Washington!
There’s burning coal flowing in the black back current allowing cyclones like Zyklon B that can poison the whole well East of Eden from here to Afghanistan— You better believe it buddy— Yggdrasil that tree good and ready
You bobblehead-plastic dolls of minimum headroom!
It’s not about the alpha male or the tyrannosaurus wrecking ball baited tale born on the forlorn forked tongue of the apex predator
the or-Uber-us of the outer Burroughs that eats itself before sinking-slinking-stinking a way into obscurity— quickening into the sands of the sea turtle’s extinguished electronic swamp, bogged down through bureaucratic channeling psychics
without passing or failing or bending forks— just flailing around Atlantis like a beached whale in the casino Royale
Whoever doesn’t fake it might be our collective sentient sententious being that makes it, feeding on caked grime, & it won’t take the mind of a magician or a general hidden leaf of fatal hooliganism, that like a fractal oaken acorn
falls from a fractional-dimensional transitional tea tree oil of all Yggdrasilion substitution-cipherous-fomenting-forming all within its serpentine-medusian-folded labyrinth of lip, slipshod slippery-sliming, rhythm and rhyming,
mesmerizing hypnotic lunatic tells a gothic Vandal’s tale of vengeance, so,
to take this stick and push polymorphous-polymers, like Homer Simpson is pit-bull pork-barrel-roll-pulled by the power of the halffish selfless selfsame self made man that lures and loves, tricks and ducks, makes like a tree and leaves all that is rotten, on the nose of Denmarkian dogs licking rancid chocolatine licorice that may very well hurt their pâté before the fox hunt, so round up the hounds and let loose your poor waggles— so let’s stay lively folks— Wave a big stick, and stave off the war games channel churning, that turns up the raging ego to 11.
And here we go round the prickly pear ashes ashes we all fall down, so stand up and steer clear down the Bosphorous straight to meditate or mediate moderately between that salesman’s charming sea-black cetacean speech, to see who’s really evolved lips should be permanently sealed in Sevastopol.
Because we must allow to escape from Pandora’s rancid flooded-fielding, rice-picking, ice cold ration box the crabby outflowing outlaw
that Stix in back of Accra, that broke the camels back there— Down, down, I say!
We must summon the mettle to cast the iron iconic daemon spouting gold bullion out— and the rest of the ingots
to have the will indeed to take back from the crumbling halls of criminal power steal balled-up dolled-up of rolly-polly behind the slack back hand pass, the black hand of fate to steal the seal, stop doing dead deals ‘cause Idly vote now or cry later, but whosoever whatever make them pay, make them pay the blood price,
hand them back the ceasarean knife, keelhaul the bastinado in the crimson of darkest nite
when mid-noon’s high times comes stroking the lightning
whom strikes hell’s Bell’s own equation,
with brim stoned cold-aborting God’s Faidley positioned fetus—
Now folks…
The hour is not nigh-now down the downy back-of-the-neck of the
dying who’s who, shot in the head like the wiggly-iggly-piggy
oily-icky-sticky that licks some little looker’s sickly-picky-pair
of paired pared hooks hooking hooked snake eyes as bait,
and breaths out one last time to spell the role of a
tarot cardsharp type of white knuckling out winter spilling guts of
oiled up gutters, while their godless god wears tears and treads
the watered down three card monte game of Rasputin’s tricks
like black reigns at Ragnar—
…OK, so Cupid soiled their pair of pants and
blew Gjallarhorn
while listening to Der Ring des Nibelungen of Richard Wagner—
Wrap ship up and shape-shrink-shirk your duty, change shirts, and be free of charge,
cash in hand waving synchronized to sink a sub-marine chronometer deep beneath the Roman bath’s barber’s vast basket-case casket of bathypelagic ozone-layered plastic shopping waves chopshopping us way off course, my horse and hoary hanky-panky pinks the stinky stench, the gape and reek of that wreck, the whole droll boring us to teary pieces, processing Babylon’s total well thrown down, wrapped around a towel, towel headed toward a holy tollbooth trolling along with the kitchen sink—
let’s rock and let’s roll down the five forgone isles and blow ship up, folks!
The pale poll stationed at kaleidoscopic pens—
Seal them in a graphic prism, for our oasis is gone before it awaits all humanity like the Hindenburg
which now needs to be re-inflated, woken, shaking and risen, and thus arise,
rallied and riled-up, rinsed and shaken like quivering pork barrel bacon, baking in the hot sun of this desiccated desert, deserted before our very eyes while wavering a blind man’s stone cold heart of a partner’s lonely vision, a self-made prisoner’s dead man only walking to stay in shape,
so sit up, stand up, get down, get up, get off your knees, slave captains!
Man the galleys oars or shake and bake till wide it wakes us,
Take the wheel,
throttle them in the cradle
and stop the false pull of the fool’s gold,
Pull the emergency braking cable—
This is a grave situation, a lure to steel those electrical guts that those in power elect to not feel— while feeling up the public, feeding off the frenzy, the frenetic emergency-urgent-energy situation, & catching a draft, ducking a draught, passing a budding body around ANYBODY and everybody everywhere skirtIng the rules
Slake now our collective thirst and do what’s right or left, but always ethical,
empower the search like i do,
for the next man, for all the who’s who of you men, for all time—
four of us are women too, baby!
Totally hilarious egalitarianism, by George oh well
Some guys have just got to go,
and some people too old to be goaded should spit or get off the pot before we all cry laughing and farting…
so shall I part with (im just dying too!) an
Amen.
Let me hear it my peeps seeing peoples
?
TЯIPTθMΞAN 