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Strumming by the higher power. ½ words. Speak the truth. They can’t hurt ya dude. Slip off the tile stage and pay me a tuna fish ton of soul. James Brown. Jim Beam of light trace trash Led Zep. Cars and aero zepplins sperm down the road singing about Jesus. Dancing around a hat, the animals blast Miss Understood while my record player receives an award for diagrams. Miss Fully Realized got an organ B-3 transplant with pizza toppings a week ago. Radio plays of my once long forgotten youth are beamed via satellite with guitar strings. I hold my hand out for the 97th teardrop.
? and the Jeffersons play sleigh bells at the Christmas pageant. Damn croon of Captain Jack, he always has to make his presence felt because he is filled with a sadness. Lord and boastful shithead. Click. Blues on the green makes me machine hips. Long term tigers of hipness and idiots of buddy icons study what I put in the zoo. She could have saved the daysleeper, but the sex toy company had a TV show to produce. Invite twenty-something coeds over for WOW. Easy on the roommate duck sauce. Fuck, what was that Bob? Where is Claire?
There was a sound buzzing mono in my cranberry mind. Who dare speaketh to the wind? The prince of talk, was it you down there by the bayou or were you at the college? No, it was the naked waitress of my dreams serving me food. It was a hot boiled love dish called eternity. Always in the mood to be rushed off to the hospital. About time for the judge to walk in on his daughter Jenny, for she was the bustiest girl in town. La cocina su familia. I too, blame game train. Riding in on the money calf about id on a Monday. Come on stop putting us on. This is serious. I need to stand trial for all the wrongs I done. Starting with the apple and ending with the three kings of Ziplock.
“Poor Mr. Dovetail. He was a great teacher, but he could not keep his thoughts to himself.”
“For shame my over-sized friend.”
The newspaper was due for a burning. Too many facts. I can’t stand politicians. They choke on truth. Blinded by thunder. These slugs make their escape to the Jersey shore. These USA merchants. On top of old smoking gun. A reference to the plastic utopia that melted last week. Soda fountain. I’m dripping with jokes to the point of discomfort.
“Ouch! My sides hurt.”
Can you refrain from throwing books out the window please. Never trust a singer whose name is Singer. Put that on sale you march of times tale maker. I demonstrated the use of gymnastics yesterday while on the lamb. What a year it has been for the TV. (Pause). Foreground and back to center and hurry up please, its time. I really worry about the cost of being.
I wonder about the tunes of today tomorrow. Rolling rock tones and decide the tuna tomb catcher with the blow up. I grain with each passing tear. Too late to tide came in and you were not on it. I saw your look alike in the bookstore. I nearly said hello. A shame that would have been. It just proves I still love you. And if you don’t believe in “love,” L-U-V, I feel sorry for you. How do cowgirls ride in the new west? Side saddle? Or is that too painful? I avoid confrontation. The soft trumpet of joy with its sad morn scorn for yonder winning prize pug. I am jealous of a thousand upsets. Born and raised in utero.
Ithaca, or mack the fife. Foils upon the mouth. Breaking news, I can’t eat alone. I am a bad tipper. What a sweet treat of parting glances. Yes, you do remind me of other statues. Liberty and that Lincoln fella. Fib. Fiber was in his other court document underneath the static of cheekbones. Should I plunder for this book?