A Small Dissection

Wrong pen. What a blame-game claim; the drawing is

next week--get your own!

'Not yelling, yelling;' voicing concern dialogue in its

appropriate emotional context involuntary.

Speaking to the ALL, the no one in particular,

said the gone Gonzo bozo with the notepad, captor only

persist in exhausted, flaccid intrigue. What's taking Bond?

'Not, not, glad' it worked, just caught frozen in the implication.

We're reaching, yeah, like a beached whale that realized

what the countdown and plunger are for. Exchange the healing

for the feeling; mid Can Can before someone told us

about the roof and its fiery condition.

Word from the inner dishonored former samurai, Jen.

Next to his blade, patience incarnate spoke. 'Revoke the

stroke's hoax of rhythm's coasting in these attempts to vent the

system... This New, New shit has thinned out the canaries.

This pattern of speak, defiance or whatever,

will remain tiresome in the chosen tough terrain. Leaning

into the battlefield, pass but not pass, pass the merchant

kiosks, the living dead are the gambling pool getting golden.

Always a wall to break. A force opposing humanity, a

hand that is meant to be god to your demon. (Who, doctor?)

Devilish mystique in the miss--misdiagnosis psychosis

stuck reliving, in hyper focus, the shattered genesis-ish that

never were.