Llala Dimitri and Ray Blue's Intercession

Maximize potential: The stored charge hoarde.

The joy of being ‘fucked up’ is the understanding that we should take control when we are able, by contrast.  By contrast we were more in control before and hopefully we will regain control again.  The ‘fucked up’ feeling is overpowering.  Imagining a charioteer, as our ancestors might have, our arm’s duty is to reign the horses attached in order and in grasp.  During the fast going, refusal to abide could be fatal by falling, distractedly. Ingest sub-stance; receive understanding ye openminded.  Always have a fall guy.  Fall guy believes he has control when he does not.

The path is set, the roads are clear.
Fall guy sits. Lightning intercedes.
Shock therapy is administered to paddled temples.
A necessary jolt for a torpid recording
“I’ve always wanted a servant like you.”

It’s like we win the love lottery.  There we are, standing with the winning love ticket, thinking to ourselves, “Finally! I’ve put myself out there every day paying my love dues every day for this love ticket and here it is! Finally!  In my hands!” What do we do?  We rejoice! Is there any better weather that day?

Control+alt+plot – The Graphic Escape (a Romance?)

The power to be devout is a broad fool’s Cape finish.
Guns and friends without a manifesto run blind hoods.
The hip-hop literati take the power back, plans before actions, action planning.
Organize, strategize, fight, easel, big paper, Sharpie.  Llala Dimitri would?

The deceased increase as bodies pile without decay.
A limb wader would know no dirt of decomposition.
Patience and pumpkins bring seeds and seasons’ beings.
Doth thy greatness go unhailed? Never!
Diminish thy static nares.
Oh no! Upturned nay-ers!
An order to undo should be undone.
Dumpster dive for dumpster diversity.

We do what we do to survive, despite extenuating circumstances.  At least the circumstances do not continue to attenuate.  Multiples of sentience produce and reproduce until production becomes a postproduction decomposition.  Hmm…  When do we get to round up the social pariahs again?

A whoremonger, villain to these non-progressive types, complains about his relationships.  Seeing his static institutions crumbling, decides to break up, but this is normal to a progressive individual like a whoremonger.  Personally, I’ve only ever heard of two types of mongers, whoremongers and fishmongers.  If there are more mongers out there please let me know.  I would not like to shake your hand, both mongers seem fishy somehow.  Rumormongers are a thing now too.  Mangomongers?  Mango Republic outsources Bananas, markets to lonely women.

Do away with static like a cling-on, ye masters of tradition, tradition of eternal apotheosis.  Imagine all the people, like Lennon in Heaven, suddenly losing faith, and tumbling.  Imagine there’s no Heaven, we know it’s easy, do we have to try?  Is there a man without judgment and without the aspect of senility?

Skippers approach another massive wall at the border of an arctic wilderness.  Another hurdle fast approaching.  How much would I rather be cruising in my Dodge Durandango than be stuck in the 1850s on a boat in the arctic sea that I’m not even captaining?  I’d even rather be in an ’04 Kia Queequeg.  Where’s my tiki idol that I can put on my head and pray to as it meditates on me and maybe it’ll teleport me to a time and place where I am finally captain of this goddamned ship and not at the whim of some Virgin Ahab?  O apparition of matter, o monster who haunts the winds pinned against an ethereal pillar extending into Heaven, plasma state of the heathen.  Oh!  How could butterflies and Enya in blissful judgment be so cold and ugly?  Tradition of antithesis of eternal apotheosis, thanks Obama!

Intercession.

Sock Ray Blue!  “Poor guy didn’t do nothin’ to hurt nobody,” just his dog.

Relive torture because you deserve a memory photo action replay in high definition, big hits football.  Fractured clavicle, broken rib, cavemen died from less.  A bruised ego?  A collective imagination allows such things to exist.  “He’s suffering, put him down,” a hopelessly hard thinker expanding on a single yeller spot.  See Spot.  See Spot run.  “Run, Spot, run! O.K. Spot! That’s enough! Come back now! I’m not going all the way over there.  It’s too far.  Come back!  Come!”

See Ray.  See Ray blow.  Blow, Ray, blow!  See Ray Blue’s blown fuse.  See Spot twitch.  See Ray Blue’s invisible fence evident by yelping Spot and yard flags along the property border.  See Spot become territorial.  Growl, Spot, growl.

Chatty power walkers wiggle swish walking suits like crystal wrapped ham by Spot’s lawn and invisible fence, chew toy chew-chew trained not to lunge at the flying meat like heavenly swine.  “That’s married rack, tough tits, good no hump.”  My complaint is this country is filled with Puritan puppies founded by Ray Blue’s ilk, kith, and kin.  Any face would grow old around a big pugnacious mouth and a slack jaw.

Getting back to basics is getting away from complexes, complexities, and melodrama of an exalted elite class stuck in an elevated depression.  “Brothers!  Our brethren are broiling in their own stock!”  Gobbled the turkey, chicken cuckold, “A delicious dish,” the clockers concurred.  Ray Blue’s invisible fence extended to the coop, every hen was yoked with proximity stun guns, so would-be escapees were electrically fried thoroughly enough to prevent salmonella.  Last eggs like popcorn burst from chicken snatch cadavers.  The last exodus: a yolky kaleidoscope.

Ray Blue’s electromelanophreniogram:  lit. An electric (digital) recording of a dark mind.

America’s brain cancer: Vegas expands the desert’s grid into the Mojave, Las Vegas, the get-lit oasis, a high-energy spectacle.  Job creation and personal debt for the cost of a flight.  The attempted tooth scalper baffled the loan shark with his utter nonsense as his gums were severely inflamed from a recent pulling with unsupervised anesthesia and a hob gob wandering drunk with pliers.  This has been a fatal attraction to a fatal distraction to a fatal extraction.  Apparently human ivory isn’t selling these days.  The woozy autoscalper bled out face down in the Belagio’s lobby fountain having poached himself.