Fuck, I'm dying...

Forever glider of the landscape, inclines put in line by the stomps from the ancestors—the fuck is this spectrum—Strider effortlessly on the grip tape, pays in pain, late fines, on the double both ways. Don’t need your sympathy; I wanted to risk my spine, middle finger always remains fine. Always. No blinder intelligence skipping through green lights, fiddler of the flow. Mystifying the daily life guidance from death’s novocaine; confused? Well, that’s your confidence going, Thomas Wayne—wait, your bat was stillborn? Death’s for nothing, not for this comic; oh well. Seeking the journey, trying to predict its ending compulsively—this vessel—after the capitalist ad line. But in the meantime, too fine for the tricks belonging to the human credulity of you all’s connective, closed trade. Winks too consistent for me. Signals don’t gleam; we’re in the universe where they are forever unseen—let’s say. Different kind of pirate plunderer in the Skyline that clears the bridges. Still more of a leisurely Walker; all feelings remain mutual—you don’t get it. Fuck some futures hold. Why bother—that’s what I keep saying. Then fix the vessel.  

Call it part two:

Play talk to the walls—get a dog?—to the halls, isolate from the strangeness, balking at your shattered gods. What do you mean I’m behind? American or otherwise. You’re not overcounting the eyes—he’s Warlock trainer status—you know nothing of the CRUNCH. You know nothing of the crunch. Fuck talk; I’m creating an epiphany switching with driveway dressings, and overcoming the love dilemma. Survivor swimmer, the high dive is another branch life happily ponders switching places with—“kick! He jumped too far?!?”—Life’s Czar, begging for sleep, who the fuck are you? Practice pull to spice up these deserts. Spread the wealth for generations; earned skateboard tricks over wealth in the right state of mind for the rebel punk, rebel against the punks that don’t reject enough, con better in the play talk. Fuck being sorry. Self-made dedication of Godly origin. Inflated runes crafted by hand, the Black Letter Society formed from the ooze—I am the slime from your video—Zapped to the feeling laugh of mine screaming through frequencies, in your radios. Rhyme sought after as the gypse womens’ comfort, so it is said. Of course I fled the energy sync, what’s daunting is the known twist I still can’t see coming—you’re not allowed—but if you feel like it was destiny after, despite predicting it before “wrongly” then it’s divine? Ever try seeing the haunting from the cynic, then fake bow to the dedication. Constant Paradoxical Contemplations…Redemption in desperation form, but not improvisational, it’s the murder in repetition, please insert practice at your earliest convenience…this better be a typo.  

No, we’re not done: Pt. 3

A holy moly soldiering coldly engulfed souly to the [REDACTED] Hey, what the fuck am I missing now? Forget wishing a long time ago.—we’re star stuff, alchemy is free—is that the return of my legendary pigeon? Sent off like a blunderbuss ejection, in part, to not taste puke and alien hieroglyphics in every reflection; Except that was never my problem, was it? Was it—don’t run!! Loose-fitting, sure, but the color. Whiskey-lit savage pit strings the retinas; oh well, boost for me, not for thee. All new holy three on its knees. Burning trees to the normies, right? No changes there. Not Waldo at the fair, planter of the stash ammo and backup vest taped to the back of the Wack-o-mole—always down for the panic match. Me? I’m fine. Fine. Imfine. Fine, nature of the fine in 4D looking dapper to some curious crakers, don’t need the coon approval. Day late, a dollar early… Metaphor these bookings to your brain; I’ll wipe my feet. Be the next meat to run you from the fire, but the defense system when you wake tied to the villain’s origin chair—fuck! It’s like a Lupin title—let the number fit my motif. Otherwise, the artifact in the Horror Basement, soul work live off no perks. {remembers who has to hold the pen} Dirt done doing the Detective’s real work. So I’m told if I investigate illegally. Self-converted yet still technically godless. Let’s play with your paradoxical bootstraps. Who I have met, faces of death in auto-writing; the queue is always too long. Meanwhile, research compels like the mantra spoken on my behalf. They’re pushing me along; should I already know? Acknowledge if you have an opinion. Confounded by the overthinking, looking through blinds, too wishful for my so-called optimism. I’m confined to hindsight; have we met?—I didn’t see anything—yet sacred bling sorts the success to this forum, let’s say. Audience unknown, peep show pals, the monologue from the Daemon mouth; sounds are given labels, and they are forced to be. Of course you laugh; we all do. Forever wisdom fueling entropy in the great Irony. Save face in the privacy. Herd of rioter negotiators like I know your names. Books are the gateway, sure, Yawaa says from high state—nice save—why would I bother, again? Locked desperately to inflate our egos—look, no legs! And that one can’t start conversations either—what a joke existence—but what a love. HAHAHAHA Hey! Them, over there, blinded themselves, then called it destiny—I speak, sure, but in these lines are new school, suckers drool—Daemon shit that makes me the proper fool, no quote for the journalist. Blissed out in this heyday, kind of missing the hey-you days of maydays. In these mountain rays, D-ring up the conjuring, yes, Mr. Kovach, were monitoring the vitals. Recommended some Midol for the—yeah, ME—other than that, your ride is waiting—next checkup in a week.

Part Four:

It’s the breathing…

Smoky bar stool dweller

Speaking to the bartender,

Calling it an open forum.

          They’re all the way on the opposite end so,

Hello, fellow traveler.

Drunk? No, tired in that way

That makes the bed nearly fuckable,

Keeps punking you with a synchronistic

Arrival of a

Pistol and single bullet repeatedly.

What am I waiting for, pussy?

 But hey, the road seems clear, dying for the

Basic fears,

Tomorrow is lush, and the tab is pre-covered.

A Shanghai-La along

The ride that confides to the gods

For snitch logs to soothe their

Bedside manner treatment. Whatever

Faith is—optimism—engine for the martyr,

We don’t have long. Right, the breathing.

Seething second to second

For dead avoidance proven wrong by

Nudity—Fuck, cunt. You’ve—that’s fucked, cunt.

The consistency highlighting these

Rules in reality I’m sick of, normalizing these hand

Cuffs, I must say, good show.

Why do I hate/fear sleep so much?

Part four pt. II

Making sure the cure is holding up,

Feeling fine ever to call it premature,

During the run down. Pup exposed to the

Gore and my villain’s

Fighting stance sucker punches all too happily.

Not a starter, remember?

Sappily the flower guy. Henchman

Rejected, horrifying

The remainder of the Sci-Fi. Nastily

In the grasp of hope, but what fall I have

To cope with, tethered to snapping

Whether the master could be bothered

To elaborate.

Mad man dead from failures to satiate

The love of—hey! This case is worth the study,

Now consider the synchronistic

Examples that scare me. fine…

I MUST BREATHE.

So I must be broken to appreciate

These curiosities—oh, you know the

Difference. Been gonzo so far

Perspectives don’t remove the dedication.

I refuse to inflate the you, if the you

Requires natural order like pen and paper

A balaclava and the security plans glued to the night of the caper.

Unblued by the failure, just fucking

sad, and you all know that. First world,

I agree, I’m in the queue—I’m scared

Love is real….

Part five: I’m not heavily editing this. It is what is…

Words fester, jester

Happy to gesture toward the secret exit

Except the Hostage taker has

Let skip the nexus for the

Snitches. I hear it all,

Your lives, the nights, out the sudden

Rechanged routes, sicken as the plot

Thickens throughout the drought—

Please elaborate!

It can undo the Absurdity

Without the expansion of appropriate

Lust for the unknown. Love or lust?

Bust the bubble, what

Trouble, except the disconnection is

Distracting.

Livable, ready, I think.

Nothing to it.

WE ALL SINK.

Truth shouldn’t be hard for you, pussy.

I’d cry if

It’d work that demon out.

What’s your excuse? Having all the

Missing pieces. Running

Out of storage space,

Seems lighter lies over fill, too important

To be a truth people—religions are a racket—not

Important enough to hack it.

Not my status quo, good thing I like

Poetic irony disaster

Rollercoaster. Guess I should just know this.

Drunk and would rather talk…

Let’s talk about it…over souled and

Suited to a certain wilderness.