The Headphones – http://wp.me/p4djh1-b2
Things I wish my syllables and verbs concocted. But it’s an authentic approach to oh whatever it’s too hot to blow you with lips of the tongue curl candy see there it went.
The pickle poached. Better refill my popped bottle cocktail. Its what works is there a problem? Pharmacy.
I said pharmacy sir. I’ve got the wah pedal zapps vertigo venlafaxed. I have a perspiration issue. My lover loves to not be bothered as I miss her whenever I’m fucked in a scorch.
How are you sir. Oh yeah I don’t sweat much. No. Do your own time tensed in the comfy chair private 5 feet. Sweat is niagra rolling down the crack of robin Williams stand-up.
Yelling like 70s tall death what? Well. It was boring. And the only science fiction fan in my youth under roof was
I need to spend some time allowing the pen. Take care of shit I shouldn’t have been ever an expectant. Well now it’s both. Relent
Less. Less. Stronger I come. More show interest. At least a yuck fucking compositional wandy wave clan.
Boss pedals. Orange blue purple. Blue shotty behringer phase shifter and ashamed should it. Twist the dollars I spent shock me. Just hit record and then run the track through digi delay short cake. Washburn guitar. Black. Hollow body. Playing through an acoustic bass amp. With secret. Secret. Cockadoodle doo like an Eric. A tim. Dan. Cody. John. Navy seal ego for the culture rock camp: ego pounded in or tears will be hidden. Can’t blame us. Wrong timing and no Slint like acknowledgment. We came along trying to pants it. We were worms hooked for the steal head.
Our favorite record. Played twice home van middle of august AC had never gonna faint don’t question my passion both shows tonight will end in a forgotten wrist.
Tell me what you want. I’ll confess. I’ll be so honest you might not like me. John Hopkins verse that if you rap to yourself a stanza a moment of whoe seduces.
Please give me some fucking support. Let me hang with you. I paved your trails. Fuck your excuses. I know more. Yeah I’m cocky. Anger is a form of being hurt. That its a scenius where you try and then hide and then puff your chest and try in which you prove and then your community becomes scared of you because it took 15 mins to minimalize where your major work has been called things nicely.
I used to annoy Dick Powell by messing with the buttons in the elevator of their house on mount tabor. As in Powell’s books. Sorry the 500 copies.
I am the William s Burroughs of yes. According to my main mentor. Scott Wannberg. A student of outlaw performance poetry which at the Henry Miller library they began outside and at the end all were inside like what the fuck.
When you try to create a beautiful experience and then have some hip seeking art prison served sentence piece of paper called degree oh I gotta poop may I please? Camus would farm blow all over himself before modeling for I’m drawing the red head with a nice butt instead.
What an bitch
I do care what u think. An anthropologist once said. I don’t know ha