Plunging into the Head canon

Apologies. Hello, says…

The tripping nomad,

Sycophant of the unknown legends

of dead comrades.

Perpetually on the lam…

Plastering advertisements of mental feats,

nothing but back-alley real estate,

Ghostland suburbs with the same Geiger clicks,

but Cage cleared.

Still, the phase of the awakened ‘Slob’ has

one steering around the infini-fog.

Treading water just out of ledge reach,

all calls lead to just another tarot card.

How many pentacles? Whatever says

The Hard Part, part two.

Gotten clues, laid down new blues, neuters the balls to

get back at The Pit’s breeder. Sparrow avoiding,

learning from the roadrunners. Can’t stop the nova

exploding my throat to end the choking. Speechless, so

'your point?'

"Don’t know what you're hoping for?" Gee,

this section rendered well as a cyber bug—thug mentality

can’t quail the real infestation all the same.

Trucks of pure flame, on the San Franciscan crucible,

rally of ripped laced gumshoes. Everyone knows to skate

with a bucket of water.

Kick-flips are for masters, and tre-flips to reignite

the spark to erupt.

Not a structure, love only FEELS packed in the attic.

Bought into the panic, the rot turns tragic,

a knack common for those with the Raven’s

third-eyed view of the daily havoc.

Can’t see all your pov, but I HAVE to say I get it.

Potholes in creativity, like the pathetic arithmetic is essential,

only knowing the lines thanks to standards designed by a

writer during the only time the nose is

allowed to grow. I’m

trapped—explaining the lack of pieces

into a thesis no one gives a shit about.

So mind the language. The sage taught us

to appreciate the anguish. Never extinguished—

no, not the rocket man, neither.

Punk band of one plus several idle middle fingers,

spits on gods' toes, exposes social systems

to the fucking furnace— 'hey, where ya going???'

Holding within the flowing, your chaos,

I presume,

but it’s how I devour, it’s the midnight snack for my

witching hour, dumbfounded M.C. Escher tower paths, feel free to cower.

Don’t fret, left brain may be a kidder but—‘where’s

right brain’s sitter!?’

Often your personal personality counterfeiter,

struts like a man born to whither. Death wisher

for the philosophy talk, lit M-80 kisser, good listener—

phrase of the day: Useless banter.

Word twister, although we have left Hades…

Updrafted after injuries set in

Fin.

Dinner theater Vegas bash, Strip’s last

Con, air of burned-out bulbs and

and dust to add to the flyover list, or the cheap road-trip dares.

Speaking of…

Content...I’m not okay.

Hay-day glittery in the mayday sirens,

I’ll be your pretty Clayface mayhem in

your silent halls, overcook the violence on

the horizon? Fuck that, I’ll microwave a whole cold moon.

"Yes, he’s that loon."

Risen above the arch of me. Watch this, double jump—

boneless Mctwist over the chopper, BITCH!

Landed manual—uh-uhp *whistles, snaps*

That’s him mid grind in all your scripted

cut scenes. SICK!! always.

Obscene yet color-coded behind the line

with the other first graders. Too mean?

Bet they heard but still can’t spell the username.

'Some degree.'

Danger when the hatch blows—fuck, why can’t I talk

to…

you?

Flows 'till Zen is on its knees, minimalist Feng Shui King,

the thing is

the voice is too sensitive for your autopiloting ears not to fear.

And technically fucking

everyone else. Belt welts, candle wax—

"wait, not loved back?" like it’s the next heavily debated case for

Websters.

Sad?

…Loved than lost. Read the transcript from the

G-man’s notes, the real parts only from

“what inside job? That’s my line…” See, all of you

are Darwin levels ahead of me, bliss

everywhere, never seen it but inside,

where the gods can be argued with.

Death is on fire; who puts who out?

Lose the coup, recruit the nuisance widow, shoot

the flare with care.

‘What was that?’ "None of us called you retard…"

Didn’t ask, but I see it was a growing consensus,

Walking farce to hold the line, too good for hopping fences

to where "it’s no place for you humans."

Anyway.

Fuck this, although the mountain drive

changed fluorescent in the ALIVE sign. Condoms,

sure, but as a void thinker, I’d prefer to kill myself

for the back-flip undo, back into mother nature's grasp

just to tell her all about the limbo she'll go through.

Years building a book of nomenclature

to explain this Absurd brain matter with the

autism feature creature new edition, and the intuition

pleads to be included based on the inner detecting Ginger

on the groundwork for the reveal party. 'What police? What for?'

(thought more would’ve changed but…)

Indentured to maniac center.

Whoo psy… woo sii… in and out...

Shit, can’t even spell it right.