Jackass,
I have no tolerance for this type of nincompoop-ery. Unprofessional in the least! How dare one must deceive in such a way as to make a mockery of my pain, discomfort, and above all, tummy-ache-y-ness! Upon reading my manuscript sent to me, with funds you acquired from me I WILL REMIND YOU, to write this…this… Twaddle! Oh sir, I am flamboyant with rage! I have put plans aside to deal with this dilemma first hand. I am so convinced of an inward spiral of sabotage set by you and your cod walloping writer illiterates that I have lost all control of sense, leaving me no choice but to trust not one of my servanttees with this debilitation, fearing you may have already gotten your smeary paws upon their hollow backstabbing hands.
How dare you try pawn-eth-ing this trite jibber jabber to me with smile and curtsey. How gay one must be in their denial to transact in such a manner as to be manner-less in their transacting! You fool! You have opened an egg already hatched in tradition! A crest going farther back than God himself! My magic powers beheld by bloodline would destroy your lame write-ery like a toothpick made of bone picking through elephant dung! Without a succeeding thought! And, it is you, sir, who is said dung.
I have paid you and your company for a job that may have been very well done myself. Weller done indeed. But instead of your reputation succeeding you with time that I myself have wasted by inquiring smarter peoples than yourself at dinner parties and expensive galas, you have failed your reputation with hooey!
Expect me to enter your Shoppe mid-afternoon upon next Wednesday to discuss this matter as civil enemies…until we become not. I will not take NO for an answer.
Sincerely,
Lord Fat Elvis
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Aspire Crossfire
An advocate of absurdity… The devotee of nonsense sits; his work is done.
When all the signs lead beyond borders. With all those transfixed on win. How pleased they seemed to be only putty in jester hands. The egg-on and false serenade of loss, sweet sorrow of boring lit and history. The advocate of fireworks sits. Yes, poised to watch the parties flash/expire in cheap spectacle… never to be remembered.
The advocate of such aforementioned nonsense learned his trade collecting mainsprings of time forgot. Watches of those Pharisees of one man empires content on greed and fairytale. To be martyrs of nothing but time.
The mainsprings are infinite, he will tell you, popping and (in true light; definition) springing randomly from nothingness. A void of empty space refilling itself with the unknown. How bitter are they, nay, retarded when devoid of ticks and tocks. How fitting to know when time is done, yet, I still stay unsatisfied in my knowledge of knowing.
Where do they go? The advocate ponders still. How funny still is nothing but. How one must be still in time; still moving, compelled, same as I, to provoke war for my own amusement.
When all the signs lead beyond borders. With all those transfixed on win. How pleased they seemed to be only putty in jester hands. The egg-on and false serenade of loss, sweet sorrow of boring lit and history. The advocate of fireworks sits. Yes, poised to watch the parties flash/expire in cheap spectacle… never to be remembered.
The advocate of such aforementioned nonsense learned his trade collecting mainsprings of time forgot. Watches of those Pharisees of one man empires content on greed and fairytale. To be martyrs of nothing but time.
The mainsprings are infinite, he will tell you, popping and (in true light; definition) springing randomly from nothingness. A void of empty space refilling itself with the unknown. How bitter are they, nay, retarded when devoid of ticks and tocks. How fitting to know when time is done, yet, I still stay unsatisfied in my knowledge of knowing.
Where do they go? The advocate ponders still. How funny still is nothing but. How one must be still in time; still moving, compelled, same as I, to provoke war for my own amusement.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Satiety Takeover
Oh, fine disgust retold within this intricate weave. The dust of forgetting without forgiveness. Blessed rejoicing by your reluctant cartilage. Those dumb receivers and pluralist senders of feedback. The backhanded compliment jossers moving up the rank and filed garbage heaps of credited manicured success. Oh, what a stench. The repetition of humdrum and baby making. The long hours of idiosyncrasies between Pop. The search for individualism tethered to hearsay. The politics of boring and child like imagination of truth. Our heart bearing sleeves of duplicity made of shining armor and daydreams. The fait accompli of a game of telephone. Of the selling of solicitude to thyself. Sneaking in tongues. Staring at freaks. Destroying all monsters. Counterfeiting the lie. Establishing oneself prominent, well versed, quantifiable, and unrehearsed. The belief that he himself has not picked sides. To say we know suffering without empathy. To gloat in the face of the sick and dying. To take no association with death out of fear, and to fear not and not not ever being known as being. Oh, the confusion of all those set free, set forth, and true.
Oh, yes…Poor you.
Those who seem deemed to pick up each task with gun at head to compartmentalize the wheel. Mouse trap. The pulley. Then, force themselves to stand straight, bold faced and dry. To be the wolf you cry for all to run away from. To lead onto nothingness and know everything under the sun. To speak in headlines, irreversible decision making, leading on history with self interest in mind. To self humbling and choosing ones own punishment. For white crimes, white lies, white deals in the dark. To the tax break pushers with rancorous blind eye on one side, all sides, and no sides. For the prostitution of misery. The sea change of friendship. The honesty of the surface. The unflinching who cares! The vineyard’s year of bitter whine of being proven wrong. The ethicalness of freedom and dumbness of domination. The jealousy of want. The lunacy of reputation. The fortitude of right. The wrongness of trust. The reducing from absurdities. The reverse of misfortune. The language of the unsung and uninteresting. Whom stay long distance in times of devastation. To commandeer at threads end. To bare the burden of hopelessness before calling it a night. To go home. To have a home. To cable television and books on politics. Rotting leftovers in the fridge. Those self-proclaimed great men and sterile women harping law driven ego. For functionless amenities gathering dust in stale arguments night after night. To the polemics of scratch people patting heads. The sun rising wherever they say it does. The lobotomized unknowingness of place or function. To cocker spaniel syndrome! To new words. To those still breathing art adulterated. Seething compassion into rust. To the eyes which never wander in the face of an enemy and give all they have to bare with tongue limply planted in cheek. To the resplendent glitter of life and the wages of sin staying death. To commercialized slavery in constitutional buried loops of equities. Concentric circulatory advice from black-eyed souls spitting up in dirty hands. The rapture of money and conformity of giving up. Staying down. Gathering fleas in a castle of sand. For the basic consumption of these necessities never running dry. The socialization of the bourgeois pointing fingers as trick. The selling of sickness turning on itself. The fly right’s and straight and narrow’s never questioning their guilt. The association of matter. The pistol packing porn closet of the moral preaching hypocrite “bound and committed by its own atrocities”. The stolen lyrics of the thought provoking pariah anguished by love. The sentimental users dumbfounded by the undead. With all sense unraveling. With all things ever known crumbling beneath their feet. The human condition solidified in amber, housing live rounds of wordless ammunitions, peered under microscope by spoiled brats. The horizon being natural course. The flit-flam of rudiment mongrels mashed-up in near life experiences for the comic relief of those who can’t help, but always understand.
THANK YOU!
Oh, yes…Poor you.
Those who seem deemed to pick up each task with gun at head to compartmentalize the wheel. Mouse trap. The pulley. Then, force themselves to stand straight, bold faced and dry. To be the wolf you cry for all to run away from. To lead onto nothingness and know everything under the sun. To speak in headlines, irreversible decision making, leading on history with self interest in mind. To self humbling and choosing ones own punishment. For white crimes, white lies, white deals in the dark. To the tax break pushers with rancorous blind eye on one side, all sides, and no sides. For the prostitution of misery. The sea change of friendship. The honesty of the surface. The unflinching who cares! The vineyard’s year of bitter whine of being proven wrong. The ethicalness of freedom and dumbness of domination. The jealousy of want. The lunacy of reputation. The fortitude of right. The wrongness of trust. The reducing from absurdities. The reverse of misfortune. The language of the unsung and uninteresting. Whom stay long distance in times of devastation. To commandeer at threads end. To bare the burden of hopelessness before calling it a night. To go home. To have a home. To cable television and books on politics. Rotting leftovers in the fridge. Those self-proclaimed great men and sterile women harping law driven ego. For functionless amenities gathering dust in stale arguments night after night. To the polemics of scratch people patting heads. The sun rising wherever they say it does. The lobotomized unknowingness of place or function. To cocker spaniel syndrome! To new words. To those still breathing art adulterated. Seething compassion into rust. To the eyes which never wander in the face of an enemy and give all they have to bare with tongue limply planted in cheek. To the resplendent glitter of life and the wages of sin staying death. To commercialized slavery in constitutional buried loops of equities. Concentric circulatory advice from black-eyed souls spitting up in dirty hands. The rapture of money and conformity of giving up. Staying down. Gathering fleas in a castle of sand. For the basic consumption of these necessities never running dry. The socialization of the bourgeois pointing fingers as trick. The selling of sickness turning on itself. The fly right’s and straight and narrow’s never questioning their guilt. The association of matter. The pistol packing porn closet of the moral preaching hypocrite “bound and committed by its own atrocities”. The stolen lyrics of the thought provoking pariah anguished by love. The sentimental users dumbfounded by the undead. With all sense unraveling. With all things ever known crumbling beneath their feet. The human condition solidified in amber, housing live rounds of wordless ammunitions, peered under microscope by spoiled brats. The horizon being natural course. The flit-flam of rudiment mongrels mashed-up in near life experiences for the comic relief of those who can’t help, but always understand.
THANK YOU!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Quote
"Sufficiency is hard for us Americans, as is to be a good-god fearing sociopath in the information age."
-Mark Twain
-Mark Twain
The Polarized Tapestry
Maroon ridden by way of thinking, forget
-stars passed on sped up tape.
Before Beta transmogrified itself, here you were:
A cataclysmic grass root of virus.
A stable molecule inciting fear.
A nucleus of ions and white blood cells.
Your parents’ shell.
In the dark, there are still roads and forks, and
“The light at the end of the tunnel was a train.”
-before there was this it had to pass.
Don’t forget anymore…At least try;
To make mock of sleight make sense
you have to forget; Try not to think for a second.
I bet you can’t.
Just be the wind.
Just be the sails.
Just be.
Be.
Just.
Be just.
Be justifiable.
Become the thought thought once and forgot and remembered.
Justify being with nothing. Be nothing and stay nothing and sleep and dream
And remember
And wake.
These recognitions on meditation are as ancient as they sound, but
With every new generation of shell comes learning
Unless your belief is that of preprogramming;
We must talk sometime then about God.
-stars passed on sped up tape.
Before Beta transmogrified itself, here you were:
A cataclysmic grass root of virus.
A stable molecule inciting fear.
A nucleus of ions and white blood cells.
Your parents’ shell.
In the dark, there are still roads and forks, and
“The light at the end of the tunnel was a train.”
-before there was this it had to pass.
Don’t forget anymore…At least try;
To make mock of sleight make sense
you have to forget; Try not to think for a second.
I bet you can’t.
Just be the wind.
Just be the sails.
Just be.
Be.
Just.
Be just.
Be justifiable.
Become the thought thought once and forgot and remembered.
Justify being with nothing. Be nothing and stay nothing and sleep and dream
And remember
And wake.
These recognitions on meditation are as ancient as they sound, but
With every new generation of shell comes learning
Unless your belief is that of preprogramming;
We must talk sometime then about God.
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