Anti-Valentine’s Day. Working holiday, opposed to the rest we typically take off into the sheets of promiscuity:
Without any real goal in mind, it becomes difficult to stray from topic. For argument’s sake, I won’t
be convincing. What’s the point? Buttooloveyes of green* The efforts that I can’t help but
lean up against as I make the squeeze betwixt the rock and the hard place through which
I love to explore and spelunk. The blood on the walls on either side take the form and
represent to me a Jackson Pollock. Perhaps he too was once inspired by these same
scenes of ores up-close. If only I had a name for this rock. Crossword rock. Answer stone.
Why won’t you tell me?! The journey stole my hand that I was going to use to feed myself and
slap something tumescent. Ever since the irresponsible mishandling of goods going to port
I’ve found it difficult to regain the confidence of my peers beyond the more ‘mature’ types who
think they know how to behave and are in the mood to show me (they don’t). Mothers and
fathers amongst us, raising kids like billy goats, just seem to give up. Feeding them anything
to elicit that clever grin of knowing how to obtain rewards at an early age. They know how
to elicit the appropriate responses from their parents to get what they’ve been given by retracing
knowing footsteps. They avoid punishment just the same, knowing how to avoid being seen, playing
invisible in shades of histrionics. (Math-o-d acting)
Without any real goal in mind, it becomes difficult to stray from topic. For argument’s sake, I won’t
be convincing. What’s the point? Buttooloveyes of green* The efforts that I can’t help but
lean up against as I make the squeeze betwixt the rock and the hard place through which
I love to explore and spelunk. The blood on the walls on either side take the form and
represent to me a Jackson Pollock. Perhaps he too was once inspired by these same
scenes of ores up-close. If only I had a name for this rock. Crossword rock. Answer stone.
Why won’t you tell me?! The journey stole my hand that I was going to use to feed myself and
slap something tumescent. Ever since the irresponsible mishandling of goods going to port
I’ve found it difficult to regain the confidence of my peers beyond the more ‘mature’ types who
think they know how to behave and are in the mood to show me (they don’t). Mothers and
fathers amongst us, raising kids like billy goats, just seem to give up. Feeding them anything
to elicit that clever grin of knowing how to obtain rewards at an early age. They know how
to elicit the appropriate responses from their parents to get what they’ve been given by retracing
knowing footsteps. They avoid punishment just the same, knowing how to avoid being seen, playing
invisible in shades of histrionics. (Math-o-d acting)
Now that we’ve put the freeze (frieze?) on the crystal mirror, we may isolate just what
we intend to abstract from the variable, selling the face to the community that…stuck…must
moose (mousse?) hair! Moose grin. Moose charge! Americans express the Zoolander blue-faith
of a frontier martyr lookin’ cowboy in skinny jeans and expensive boots and a hat hard to run
in from Milan or the south wedge of somewhere important soundin’.
we intend to abstract from the variable, selling the face to the community that…stuck…must
moose (mousse?) hair! Moose grin. Moose charge! Americans express the Zoolander blue-faith
of a frontier martyr lookin’ cowboy in skinny jeans and expensive boots and a hat hard to run
in from Milan or the south wedge of somewhere important soundin’.
Waxing Brazilian, the freaks of beauty stamp my passport with the standard I’ll be
sure to both uphold and set until my documents expire. That’s assuming they’d let me in.
This is wishful thinking, hasn’t happened yet in objective reality. Por tu geese, let me fly
south for the winter, beyond climate and into hemispheres that may just belie the surface
or the crust of a place, (at least I could go to TLC and to waterfalls chased, (a poor country
is an imaginary place?)) in dreams that represent grandeur, a metaphor for something my life lackest
to the degree of latitude smackest, dabbest in the middle of a she-makin’; up for something…
sure to both uphold and set until my documents expire. That’s assuming they’d let me in.
This is wishful thinking, hasn’t happened yet in objective reality. Por tu geese, let me fly
south for the winter, beyond climate and into hemispheres that may just belie the surface
or the crust of a place, (at least I could go to TLC and to waterfalls chased, (a poor country
is an imaginary place?)) in dreams that represent grandeur, a metaphor for something my life lackest
to the degree of latitude smackest, dabbest in the middle of a she-makin’; up for something…
*FRANKENSHEEP RENEWEL of the Biological Freak who has an objective REASON To be Paranoid!
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