deafeningdragontimemachine

[deafeningdragontimemachine]

My personally written and recorded music

[deafeningdragontimemachine]

Fetlife Backup.....mines now.

Slavery

Of love? Let my love go. My love can do as she pleases with whom she pleases. Love must be personal slavery. You must lock yourself to the post and swallow the key and pray that you are worthy of the love you imagine. The love you find. Let the love come find you then, again, and again, and again. Each time will be love again, and again, and again. My love takes my reigns when she pleases.

Dec 10, 2015

And

So he set to it. Writing the names. First, just the Jehovah's. So what if he left out the disciples. Just blind followers really. He brandished his broadsword beneath the breath of his breast. Like a Beretta he blatantly bled and bleated. Just for penance, really. What did they have on him now? Slander? What? A rose by any other name. Stalking? To walk the line was his punishment. Trespass? Of what land did he not own now that he breathed a sigh of relief to trodden lightly now for fear of taxation from the local sheriff. He reveled in it, now; the fervor, he would call it. At night sometimes it would blast through him like a train whistle blow in the dead of a midnight run against the curtain call. Night had him now and all night wanted was a soul for trapping in the black of the furnace. Hot with a wick for burning but lacking in the fuel of a man's heart. The flame was cold now. A less than shine of a flicker in a past gone dry from a lack of gin. Now he waited for silence to come hither, but it rarely did. Tippy tappy was all they would ever hear in the dead of the night when the stupor hit his brain and bled against the wall of a skull too brittle with the pains of love. No more could it hold the belting of a long lost love for Brit in the night. Now love had a name. Now love clung to a heart. Her's was cold with the grip of the street but the beat still clamored a familiar sound to make a man get up and to his feet in the night. He would tire no more for the sound of a lover at the door. She had come. Love was home. It just mattered, now, whether he would beckon it with an arm or with a heart of his own. His was tired but not yet beaten. Still hollow and a thoroughfare for liters of the liquid life. Fluxing the blood made him whole again; much like a man again. Full steam ahead said the brain trapped by the skull brittled and broken by the train steaming ahead and at full one last time like a steal beam heated and and slammed down the chimney on Christmas day. For the children, they needed some heat; some glint of hope to cling to in the morning. Some golden goose egg to behold and pray to for love God had long gone from this place now. No man speaks of God anymore. Of Jehovah. Of the disciples. Only love here. Only hope for a woman so far long gone down the tubes and wrapped in tendrils electrifying the world; alone and on fire. His love had a home.

Dec 21, 2015

It

Was transparent, now, his anger. It lept from his body and danced around him in the night; begging for attention, really. It would poke and prod him for a hope to rile up some sort of attention worth a scrape on a board or perhaps a slap and a tickle. He dreamed and anger slapped him awake to make him atone. His life was anger's doorstep and more guests were coming, believe me. Now the gritted teeth started to dissolve in their positions. Grit and sand would cover the floor sometimes when he stood at the refrigerator pondering what to eat next. Why had anger waited so long and grabbed hold so tightly? To be angry at a whisp of air before you and none the wiser why you hadn't closed up shop ages ago was what he wondered now. This anger was scary. It had no body. This anger was uncontrollable. It had no form. This anger would never leave him alone. He knew that now.

ON

and on and on the song it goes. No one knows. Paradise. All these things I've done. And she is there. Where? So long away makes the boy a tad grumpy and he makes a tantrum seem so fitting. Up and down. Round and flat. Across the door and down the throat with the key. He will not boast but he does not want it to hurt again like it did last time. No more pain, he begs. No more tears, he cries. No matter; the love won't play by his rules. It never did.

Dec 26, 2015

Now

the memories. The promises. The lock and key. Both returned. Both unbroken but somehow lacking in purpose. Organized and stacked, all should be back to how it was before the storm, the second coming. Wind and rain left the place a mess. He could clean up but that would just make it easier for the third and fourth and devils are already knocking down the door again. Such a pretty pear with such a poisoned core.

Your

Words. Just that. Letters scrawled on a wall and left for dead. The markings may seem familiar but to each his own in this place, this dark and disheveled hole. Take no solace here with your words. They cannot save you from yourself. All you can hope to do is trace and clue yourself to some other's plight; another rabbit hole with windings much like a wire. Long and gnarly the wire will curl and que. You'll find yourself quite empty and wanting once you take a ride on a wire of a man's mind. Not for the faint of heart, I'm afraid. No a man's wire will take you to the depths of madness and then back again for reinforcements and a strong cup of tea to square up against the devils peak. Once a wire is designed, commissioned, and built not much else can be done but to stand back and watch the horrors unravel. Some say God is there. Some say the devil. I say the ether, all things, and nothing. The mind. A terrible thing to haste. Time breeds growth. Growth breeds tendrils. Tendrils take hold of another. This is the way of the tree of life and so will it be of the wire and and it's way. Nary a word can save you but fear not to say what you feel you know. Tary and knob what you find to mark your way. Nook and crany. It's adorable. Imp and poe. Without these we would never have met. Tent at night. Keep candle light. The burning embers ward off the smell of a dead man and the light keeps me company when I find you in my study. Do not fear my breathe on your cheek. It's warmth is for to comfort you. Breathe and exhale so that we may take you in a bit. It's lonely here and it makes for entertaining when we can imbibe something other than the spirits. Souls. I never would have pegged myself one to dabble in the inhalation of souls but yours will do just fine. Lay on the table and I can make it quick and painless if that be your fix. I prefer to suck the life over a time and time again, at least. I find a relationship builds on the breathing of a soul over more times than just over 3. If I sputter it's because I haven't yet accustomed my lungs to one as strong and limber as yourself, you being the imp now while I tent. Strange how we dance and the music is quite nice. I fancy dining with you but I never caught your name...

Tippy

tappy; at the weirdest of hours. And to whom? For what end? No one will save him here. just jackal and hyena. Laughing and yipping as they search the badlands for more game to feed the insatiable hungers of their own. It won't be long now before the packs start in on him. First they will sniff him out when he tries to bed down with one of the mating types. That's always his weakness. Looking for "her". Then they'll encircle him when he lets his guard down and head in on him not long after the water starts to dew just before sunrise. Jump him in the morning. Steal his valuables. Slap and beat his face. It'll teach him, yet again, not to trust so easily. But he'll forget. He'll cry again. He'll nurse his wounds. The sun will rise. All will be as it should. No emergency broadcast will go out alerting the masses to anything amiss. Just another fallen errand boy. But for what means; there can't be much value in beating a dead horse these days. The guys had his fair share of heartbreak. I hope they go easy on him. Or at least kill him this time.

A finger...

It can be bold. It can be brash. It can be cute. It can be crass.

But a finger points you.

It may point up. It may point down. It may be black. It may be brown.

But a finger anoints you.

Sometimes it's just one. Sometimes it's a few. Sometimes it's random, sometimes on cue.

But a finger has joints too.

I just found a finger, I think it has wings. A finger in my soup. Sometimes it sings.

"I give the finger to YOU"

All these fingers and all I wanted was safe. All these fingers but none of them just WAIT.

Back

To the drawing board. Everyday. Failure. Everyday. Boredom. Everyday. What happened to my amazing life?

I wouldn't have gone to jail for you. That was my limit. I learned that now. I couldn't bend the rules like that. I couldn't lie on a dotted line for a stack of cash. So we're through? You just left me there. You said "too sick". You said "too much". It hurt. It cut. There are marks now; I see them everyday. It hurts. EVERY. TIME.

Jan 20, 2016

Tomorrow

Always a day away. Left for the next day. Why? Life is today. Life is now. Why can I have her today? Why wait until tomorrow to grow. To improve. Sitting and stewing about my broken body won't heal the wounds. Work will heal the wounds. Toil will leave troughs for the seeds. Water, my God, water you fool; not the fructose. The starches. The new year is upon us. Tomorrow you get out of bed and fight the demons in your bedroom. Shadowbox. Pick it up. Put it down. Move around again. No one loves the sloth. No one needs an extra bag. You can't save her if you don't save yourself first. Get out of bed. Make the covers. Brush your teeth. Try again. And again. And again, I say, to get a that job. Failure isn't an option, it's guaranteed at this point. You will fail MANY more times. You must embrace failure. You studied the failures. The yielding. The stresses. How could you think they would be absent from your life. The forcing function is always there. Never a day will pass without the mass-spring-damper problem square in your sights. You must be the mass, attack the spring, and ride the damper. This is your last tomorrow. Tomorrow is a tired excuse.

Jan 22, 2016

MartyrDOMME

She wrecked. She whipped. Tables tipped and bowed. The china gave her away when she walked in from a hard day of work and it made him nervous to have such a valuable thing at his fingertips.

So he shadow boxed. He wrapped and rapped about it with his cohorts. The rooms fumed. The doors were blown off. Chaos.

Back

Forward. To the left. Again; with feeling. These will be my new mottos. Never again will I doze at my post. My post is for standing and surveying the lay of the land. To gain an upper-hand of some sort in this battle; this war of our worlds. Now back to shoveling and piling this shit that needs to be moved. Never think of the end of the stack. The stack is for mending of the mind while at your post. Freedom from your post is only illusionary. Post after post after post will be my fate now as time drags me down by the pin on my breast. I have reached into the sand and pulled the pieces I so desperately pined for and now I must deal with their tremendous weight. My shirt rips at the pin engagement and my back is sore from holding so fast the weight of this man I must now become. I have all the pieces now. Funny, to be so alone yet so fortified. To be defeated yet free. Disheveled, depressed, and graduated. Like a real man.

Mar 5, 2016

Just

For her, he said time and time again. Just when it meant something again. Only for the serpent. Flicking and laughing his tail and tongue in one movement. Gulping the poisons. Calming the storm. God the storms he had seen... and been. Why now all quiet on the western front? Many more needed food. Many more needed hands. Where were his countrymen now but lost in the waves of overstimulation and oogling the cat and mouse prey game that hailed their fancy. MY men. MY women. MY comrades. Where had they been for so long, he lulled now in their absence. The fervor only came to him now on solemn rides home from the market or in dreams his family and doctors had deemed agenda suicide; he chose "the ether". Rambled again and to work for the pen. No more lying about and waiting for life to balls up and make a man out of him.

Mar 7, 2016

Gawd

And then as soon as he had found him, he lost him in the murky muck of it all. Of game hype, of sense, of the logic. He was gone and never to return, it seemed. Lost like a child he pawed and clamored for something familiar to rouse him back to the place he had found there before. But for not, gawd was gone.

Mar 12, 2016

Tempted

He waited with bated breathe sometimes in the afternoon, just after work. Writing for the sake of finding a treasure trove of meaning in the mess of it all. It was too easy now. Everything had fallen into place in a horribly mundane existence. He wrote now to push some breath back into the old familiar life he had given up on. Beats of his old bleeding heart kept the tick tock ticking but no one believed the old thing would do much anymore.

Mar 22, 2016

Diving

So he jumped. It blasted things forward for a bit. Things whizzed and the world warped around a point in the very front of his head about 12 inches in front of his nose. Whirling and whipping the cosmic soup showed him a fast forward of the world and he reveled in it. In this space the world didn't make sense but things were supposed to add up in the end. The calculation was there but he didn't care what the final solution really was. He did it for the jumble. He already knew the solution long before he hoped into it. There was no solution. There were no happy endings. Things would not fall out as they should have.

May 13, 2016

Scribbles

etched all about amused him. He liked the tidbits in succinct morsels at times; others he wanted them on playback and looping modules to layer the cake. It was a good cake. It smelled of barbecue sauce and ached of restlessness. It was good for him. He liked the temperament of the market; salty with a wick of glory.

May 15, 2016

Seen

Once seen, things rarely go back to the way they once were. If you let the cat out of the bag does the bag need? What use is anything to anyone anymore? All I see in my world is sleight of hand for skittles and peanuts. I tire of the games we humans play. I long for someone. I rot in my cage quite petulantly. Where have all the people gone?

May 16, 2016

And he wrote again

It was a dark night. Darker than most had been in the candlelight of messed up feelings. Heebee jeebees. Everybody's got problems. Now yours are just out like a mess on the floor. Better for the wiser me and won't get burned so hot next time like that. I'm picking up my feet. I'm brushing my teeth. No one can keep this kid down if they tried. Everyday is a new chance.

Jul 9, 2016

Chapter 3.14

And then it was boshy time. Time held still but young table-toppers took heed. The salt was on the table and the table was being flipped. Things were a real sticky wicket but they got along okay. The flipping had begun last yesteryear and the salt lay all across the floor for hours. A lick? For funzies they said boshy and got weak with the stuff. Umbrellas couldn't keep the children safe from the sheer weight of it all.

The salt had been specially fabricated to taste sweeter than actual table salt but people still died from over-stimulation on the weekends. "Mods" were needed to make sure shovel loads of the stuff didn't clog the conveyor belt system that shipped it in. Every Thursday night at 3:14 a new salt depository was commissioned and it was shipped by a young whipper-snapper by the name of L0Ljk. Young L0Ljk made it clear that the salt would be kept safe. Safe from the dirty table-flippers of yester weeks.

Aug 18, 2016

Tippy Tappy

IT happened. We can't change that now. Time takes time. T tips t. T______T whales sleep in the seen images of long forgotten teens skinned alive for their gumption and startup. Oil? For the hash lamps to light the small corner you hide yourself in when you think the jury is out on your chat badges. Silver? For the ingot. Gold? For my teeth to shine like the razors edge of blinding blades fighting glory for The Sword. Go.

Aug 27, 2016

Stricken

Down to the table. To wipe the sweet, a dew they kempt for forgetting all about the time at all for realz. Time was kept on dinkering machine of pebbles and cane. Rock and roll ladies and gentlemen.

Nov 18, 2016

Soon

The shudders. Jolts of electricity fluxing through a wire to drive a sound so boisterous it split metal with the heat of a knife. Billowing through the air the sound shook small objects not affixed or heavier than a half dollar. A temperature change was only noticeable to the accustomed few to the higher level derivations in laboratory experiments throughout the years we rocked on this precipice in time and space.

Dec 27, 2016

Depression

Where were the new experiences? What value did this digital world give except escapism and distraction gaming? He longed for a purpose; a quest. He slept all afternoon. He stopped shaving except when his boss specifically pointed out his 5'o'clock shadow. His bed sheets bunched up and made a mess of his mattress. Depression.

May 20, 2017

It made sense

The monotony of gametime betting and youtube clips got boring sometimes. He paused occasionally to contemplate the meaning of it all sometimes. But then another spin at the wheel of luck to try and become a salty champion. That was the dream. To be something that mattered to these halfwit degenerates that cruised the saltybet chat room; that was the end goal.

Sep 2, 2017

Never bet

It gets you into trouble in the long run. The running tab ends you up in the salt mines to be peddling this shit around like a common waiter. BibleThump.

Sep 11, 2017

Writing

took hold at times of gasp. Of wonder. GivePLZ ItsBoshyTime TakeNRG. It made sense code word as well as elucidated response (◕_◕ ✿) O’RLY? Things made sense in a long tab ridden gobbly gooked mess of chat windows and streaming services. Facebook included.

Oct 9, 2017

Sometimes

Inclinations moved his very soul. He couldn't explain it. His life was important just not now; not like it was. This gamer corner was his only reprieve. It smelled of loneliness and soiled sheets. To access it was normal, he told himself. A gut reaction to feelings of hopelessness and too much sleep. It rolled die. It got the ball rolling. It sounded like life.

Oct 29, 2017

GivePLZ ItsBoshyTime TakeNRG

The mines smelt of loneliness. No pebble and gumdrop machinery at the ready for some chat worth a damn in the open sea mechanics with donger machine capable of swings in upset betting on multiple occasions with TEEX88

Nov 11, 2017

Stuck in taffy

He reveled in it for a while. Riding the streets he would purposefully speed up, accelerate if you will, to the posted speed limit, velocity as it were, sometimes, in his musings. But occasionally the thoughts began to swarm him up at times. He would have stupors of sleeplessness that his family had deemed “the ether” and off to bed with you. Perhaps to the doctor to tell you what’s the matter in your head.

But within this acceleration he witnessed a time rate of change of his environment that painted a precarious predicament in the Iran/Anonymous/Prism crisis of 2000-2014 and continuing. We have been going strong now, ever since I heard it from the streets. This entire nation is a hypocrisy enumeration of the continued exploitation of the mass media explanation. The resultant market fluctuations are the only condemnations of the world wide federation that keep circuit integration. Nothing wrong at all; thanks for the free parking.

But circuits lead to wires. A wire holds down in these kind of spots. You gotta be patient. Let the waves come to you. It’s not “ride it out” so much as it is “don’t rock the boat”. But they hit me in the back of the head anyway. Current runs strong in my wire line. They take ‘em all down together. No need to worry, the current picks up somewhere else and does something electrical. Incandescent. The spectacles are on again this evening. Come watch with me. It would be nice without the kids…

Oh, there it is again. Well, I appreciated being the topic of conversation for a bit. Let’s see; I saved us countless mistakes and so much money in this economy. You know I can’t work until next year. Yeah, turns out thats what they do to people like me; the wireless. I swear, I don’t know what that means. Could you try explaining it to me again?

Apr 18, 2018

༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

So have you gotten all you tags together? These are very important tags to have, mind you. They may not look good on the outside but you have a wild animal chomping at his own bit. He has been scared, by many other wild animals he is forced to co-habitate with in your disgusting little fish bowl that seems to be working so well. Why is it this only benefits someone who pulls strings on a blind wind up doll. Why must I be sedated while you pluck. I know. Collusion. I know. The state. I know. Profit. Well who is profiting now? No one. No one “gets” to see my writing now. It’s proprietary. And it makes me mad as hell I can’t make any money off of it. Do you know how long I’ve want to “make money”? God, how long has it been? Dreams don’t even help. I dreamed of walking up to my dad with the stacks of money I would have by now to wash away his problems. I dreamed of the money I could “throw” at my mom so she could throw more pots. A little fucking respect. Thats what industry doesn’t understand. An iota of fucking respect for the man that has to sit here and act like he has no idea whats going on. Eventually they “make” you see. They make it obvious when they are being forced to wine you. I tried. I tried writing for everybody. Nobody wants you to do it. They find out where you hide and they shake your little hidey hole. You wouldn’t call it a threat on your life. You would call it a friendly phone call. You wouldn’t call it harassment. You would call it law enforcement. You wouldn’t call it counter-productive. You actually bought this. You just didn’t know it. What this is supposed to be is a tell all. It’s a bullshit piece. This is “supposed” to be art. It’s the last splinter of a psyche shredded to bits. I really have to believe I’m crazy now. That is “the answer” I’ve been given. You would call it God. I would call it America. Maybe the “profit”. Maybe the “university”. Whatever it was, it’s long gone now. You will never see it. You are one person. You can only tell one other person before another person tells another person what they heard and the “effect” would be gone. Too fleeting. Too hard to enunciate.

Apr 22, 2018

What is sleep, an essay

Explain sleep? Sleep is down-time. Sleep is forgetting about life's big problems for a while. Sleep gets you ready for hard work in the morning. Sleep makes you a human being. Sleep could take you to the moon, if'n you want it to. As we speak sleep is what is going on in the world where we live, NSA is listening (UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT APPROVAL STAMP HERE). Energy is all the earth's population cares for. Sleep is when it is okay for it to be dark outside. When we sleep, we use less energy, cause less entropy, and our sacrifice leads to more energy for others within the system. Sleep is for winter. Winter is coming to the US. Sleep is electro-chemical brain chemistry organizing data in a subjective, chronological, somewhat chaotic system with parameters that have no boundary conditions or initial conditions. Sleep is chaos within your psyche for a time. Sleep is recharge mode. Sleep can be short and long. Sleep can tell us things about ourselves. Sleep is juuuuust like breakfast. Sleep can be scientific. Sleep is cyclical; in being cyclical your "cycle" of sleep can be unique and your own. Great minds like Da Vinci practiced sleep adjustments once he figured out how to achieve REM sleep. REM sleep is where we dream. "Power naps" are possible to sustain positive brain function. If you have trouble sleeping soundly, for several days on end you may need to seek medical attention, post haste. Sleep can be affected by depression. Don't be afraid to contact a doctor of psychiatry if you have trouble sleeping. Sleep is where you come up with dreams for tomorrow. Sleep is memory management. Sleep cannot be taken away from you or that is defined as torture. Ritualized practices of sleep deprivation occur in our world. No one should ever be deprived of sleep. Sleep deprivation is torture. Can you remember a day you haven't slept? Sleep is eternal, ephemeral, subjective, iconic (or iconographical depending on semantics); sleep cannot be contained in words. I cannot hold sleep in my hands and show it to you. Sleep is yours and yours alone. No one can have your sleep. Sleep ebbs and flows. Sleep makes you a person with dreams and fantasy. Sleep is imagination on sleep. You can't get a better movie than an in sleep movie.

Apr 27, 2018

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

So I sit here looking to present a topic I had long passed up as turned in on time and double-ly stamped for approval by a willing accomplice and another party I deemed the beneficiary because what I wrote was sufficient in my mind to constitute an understanding of boundary conditions, initial conditions, atmospheric conditions; a particle situated in space can be debated upon in open conversation but beyond that table, beyond control of space and time cannot force governments to stamp approvals within due process of claimants under the penalty of forced paradigms of indifference in the scientific community and combat climate change.

This story is long because it took a long time to build an understanding of time, space, science, government, physics, energy, world population, climate change, global ecology, global politics (among many other things, but I will stop here).

Exergenic degradation factoring is a possible paradigm to house a mock war zone for global carbon wars, competitions, exercises, what have you.

So we have waste; and we can see waste. Waste is a word. Waste goes to the bathroom. Waste gets picked up on curb sides on scheduled appointments around the world. You can have waste delivered and deposited. Waste is universal. Waste is biological. Waste exists in nature and in theoretical calculations. Waste can make energy if it is used effectively. Waste can create climate change, if used effectively.

You begin to feel like a mad scientist. It's a bit unnerving to actual think of how to apply social engineering. Madness. We are all sheep.

And what have we learned of black box "emissions"? Just another crux. Another addiction. More cocaine. More wiretapping. I'm on record with some pretty big people man. I wrote stuff down. I laid pipe. I saw the complex being built. The "nuclear" was already in the black box you gave me. I can't tell the world this moment in time that my obsession with my wife, drugs, UNCC, Marriott, global writing.... was what made me want to kill Trip Branch, that's a lie. Now I know why global writing is important. Now I can't change it though. I know the three letter organizations by heart. I learned them in school. They just let us believe it was okay. It is called social engineering. They try real hard. The problem is the drugs. The drugs always get involved with the three letter organizations no matter how hard you try to report. Now I report to drown out the wiretaps in my home that I kept with someone I promised my life to. And now she is gone. It sucks that we have to learn this way. I can't change that. I just know a person who I did help. I tried really hard. I walked in there and said what they said your supposed to say. I tried. It's just the emissions. They don't want it in their ecosystem. They don't want you to harass them. They want to harass you. It's okay. They will invade your space if you let them. They will touch you if you want them to. You are allowed to do anything you want with the people you promise your life to. It is your life. Not mine. I was a scientist. I was a mathematician. I was a crusader. I put my face out there and let walk all over me. I laid a lot of pipe, dude. I worked in that cyberspace. I wanted to change things. I didn't want to build their cars. I wanted their industrial machines. I caught wind of them through consulting. It sucks I incriminated you. Trip Branch. If you don't want the name anymore it's okay, I don't either. I've seen who wants me dead. A man without a face that says he wants science. That's how they made me want to kill Trip Branch.

You see I know how to report black box emissions. "Report" is to discharge in this context. I can report via analog translation to an output. I will show you a black box which I can report in your local airspace. The thing is, nobody really wants this. General dynamics lead to fluid dynamics as you want to report more. The more "report" you get, the larger amount of heat and energy dissipation you will have in your airspace local to the black box. Don't ask me to work with your black box. I have many black boxes of my own. That is what the value of an engineer is. I bring the black box right to you so you don't have to find it. You don't want black boxes. Black boxes are dangerous. They have become "black" because you don't want to see the ecosystem they reside in. This removes liability. This is how the military expropriates the state. I can't be given an honorary law degree from any of the schools I have attended but that does not mean I don't understand the laws of thermodynamics with context to ecosystems. So far many of the black boxes I have seen in industry are digital; i.e. they become "operating systems" that collude with the airspace environment. I know of black boxes that can incriminate airspace in different states because I am an engineer. I'm sorry you are not if you don't understand. That is why the military threatens a long term educated investor. I can only value myself instantaneously within my environment; I can't "work" in an environment that exposes me to unknown black boxes. I refuse to as a statistician, a scientist, an engineer, and a mathematician. I know because of these sciences that my environment can have many "black boxes" in it that I don't know about but the state does. If I am asked to value myself instantaneously within the market that threatens me with law, I must instantaneously value myself and in order to do that accurately I need to read the market in which I reside. I don't deal with marketing. Scientists write things down. I'm sorry for you that I chose to approach my ecosystem with science because that gives me many disciplines to value. I can make a prediction on the investment of education, can I not? Or has my environment become a black box for the state? Hrrrrmmm. We, as a society, should debate this in the open. I have never met anyone that wants to talk to me in a "global cyberspace" other than my trusted consults. I am allowed to use the market to find consults wherever they may linger. Whether it be my cyberspace or my airspace. The government has infringed on my" verbal" (or "written", or "recorded" ) agreement. I can tell the government to go fuck itself, basically. That is what I did. That is why Trip Branch decided to commit suicide. Again, that is my subjective reality; good luck trying to recreate it. That is why this form of reporting (i.e. me sitting in a cyberspace where I believe I am not surrounded by any foreign black boxes and spilling my guts) is poor judgement for our society to encourage. All I am doing here is incriminating myself. I can incriminate myself as much as I want in this cyberspace; you don't know where I am right now). You don't know that when I stop interacting with this cyberspace (i.e. the space I am in at this very moment) I won't be "awarded" or "granted" or "considered" etc., etc. a degree of law in the state in which I reside.

Where is this "independent consultant" I've heard about so long within the state of North Carolina? I've never been approached by an independent consultant and agreed to consult for "him", "it", "them". I may be on "record" in some cyberspace, airspace, somewhere, at sometime with an independent consultant I have not had the pleasure to yell at about how much my environment attacks me with "harassment" to invest in the capitalist trade. I've let my "contract for an education" with the state of North Carolina expire evidently. I have been approached by new sheriffs, new law men, new money, new harassment, new black boxes. I am very scared of the black boxes I have encountered recently (within the last year, debatably longer but we can scale) I was forced to interact with and observe their purposes (some harassment, some for other means). I have a very turbulent ecosystem as a capitalist scientist. It is unfortunate for the reader that does not grasp "law of the land" politics. I can't see gang signs. That is why they are gangs. I've been fighting the gangs for a long time. Now that I have had an opportunity to revalue my market outside of local threats in the capitalist trade I have decided that the state taught me very much indeed about how things are done within the United States of America. I am indebted to North Carolina. I don't know how much I have been paid by them but somebody wants to buy me off. I just looked at the market and it told me "we need a magician". I don't remember taking any sleight of hand courses. Perhaps you did in your education. I am jealous. I have seen sleight of hand on scale of capital and it can only be explained by magic. I have no recourse but to instantaneously value myself with your market and exit because I am "scared". I apologize to the reader that is not scared of their market(s). By all means, expropriate your markets as best you can. We all do the best we can. Mistakes breed progress. So you want a report on energy. Hrrrrrmm. Why? I'm not going to figure it out for you. You want me to go to your databases and incriminate myself. Thanks, I didn't know I was creating my own state in college. Nobody told me that. Nobody directed me. I wrote down things that I thought were free speech because I'm delusional. I thought writing changed things. I spoke with truth in locked closets. I didn't try and harass my way to the top, you did. I invested in my body and mind for as long as they would let me. Now, at this very moment, "they" seem to be saying "no, you are a terrorist. we were watching you the whole time and we sold you out because you didn't write enough english. we needed you to socially engineer for us but we couldn't come out and say it. that would make this illegal. that would mean someone would have to die." Don't worry, in my "cyberspace" they already killed the reporter. I just didn't know I did it for them. Believe me; I feel very alone right now. Everyone I've ever "talked" to in science has expropriated me. I can contemplate suicide, pace my "facility", harass my "labor" or I can just sit and write, in plain english, as best I can why I have suddenly become delusional. My delusion takes on many forms. I believe computers are recording devices. I also believe that on the other end of my computer is another person I am talking to. I believe that they are reading, rereading, proofreading, deliberating (independently), throwing gang signs, making waves, harassing, laboring. I guess I'm delusional. What is worse is now that I reside in the state which I call home people are already debating whether I am delusional or not. I can't fake my "condition". The problem is nobody can figure out what my "condition" is. They try and "medicate" me but I am convinced this is really just a "black box" devised to "help" me incriminate myself. They want me to go to some room that may or may not have a recording device in it and talk to people. "they" call it psychiatry. It is incrimination science. It is the last "gang" I could find before they said "okay, now we believe you are in it all by yourself". Walking to campus has become the equivalent, to me, of going to work for myself. They finally let me go. Don't worry; I was just in a gang. I just killed someone. I just "moved a lot of weight, yo".

You see, my black box always had peace in it. It is just that my ecosystem never asked for peace. My ecosystem always asked for more. Every jump I took. It was my pride, I suppose. I had other black boxes for my lust, greed, etc. (7 deadly sins). I've always had spirituality. I know of religion (many actually). I know of God (many actually). I took religion out of my black box a long time ago. I didn't need religion to help me fill my ecosystem with peace. The problem is, my ecosystem has never wanted peace. It has always asked for expropriation (capitalism). I know how to labor. I do it every day. The labor I have now is to convince myself that I didn't behead that poor reporter (which ever one, whenever it happened). You see in my ecosystem, they allowed me to be a reporter without knowing it. I didn't report here because this was a black box. They always just wanted me for my english at UNCC. They wanted to hide others under my coat of arms. My pride has given me the knowledge that I will never be allowed to work in the state of North Carolina again. I can't remember the last time I've felt as though I was doing it all on my own until now. I was carried by so many great names. The ones I encountered at UNCC were just the best for me within my capitalist ecosystem. I expropriated the hell out of my lineage. And here I sit, with my entire "family" still intact. I weep for those who cannot have the same. That is why in my black box science became the answer. I learned "interdisciplinary studies" at a young age. I was always applying high order taylor expansions to my environment (I just didn't realize it until recently). The environment just didn't want peace, it always wanted something else. A bigger exhaust fan. A more efficient process. A new "take" on an old design. My education tried to give me the environment it thought I needed. The problem is, my airspace was always filled with other things that I did not need. I talked the talk. Now I harass every single person I encounter because I was shown that nobody ever wanted me for anything but my face at UNCC. I thought I was smart. They let you believe it when you have lineage like me. They just want you to vomit in their airspace, to drown out the other lineage that doesn't matter. I come from a long line of tigers. Unfortunately, my education taught me a taoist approach to life. "Be like water". I let them use me. It was easy. I thought I was just lucky. Now I know that it is true but it wasn't some rabbits foot. It was my face. They needed it. They will continue to need it until the end of time, I postulate. The thing is, "they" didn't realize I was trying my best. Now I am exhausted. I am scared. I trust absolutely no one outside of my immediate family. I've seen how they tempt you in. I fell for the pride trap. It's okay, I reported while inside the pride "black box" (digitally, written, and verbally). I love language. It allows you to interact with other black boxes. The problem is, now every single language I use is harassment. I thought they harassed me because I was cute or handsome or smart. They harassed me because they wanted my face. They just don't call it harassment. They call it education. "school of hard knocks". I've never had it rough. I starve myself but that is in order to expropriate my environment. I don't want to ask my environment for anything else for the rest of my life. It wants it all back now. "They" would say it is because of the law of thermodynamics that applies to environmental conditions and equilibrium. You see I just "ate" too much. Now I must starve in order to balance out my ecosystem. Knowing what I do now about ecosystems, I never want to "eat" again. It will just be a lie. They will just put more zeros behind more digits for me. They will just buy me with women. I can never have a woman again. My ecosystem taught me that. I have learned much from my ecosystem. I owe it very much. The problem is, now I can't pay it back but with my life. It wanted my life the whole time. I didn't promise my life to an ecosystem. I promised myself to a woman. That is why I will die alone. I'm not scared of dying alone. We all die alone. Trust. I will not trust for sometime. I've trusted too many people. Too many women; too many men. I've endangered too many people. My science cannot fix anything. My science can only comprehend. My science can only postulate. My science was one of the worst investments I've ever made. My science is just used for parlor tricks. Sleight of hand politics and economics. My spirituality. That is the most valuable thing I have now. I will use my spirituality now. I just hope my ecosystem can use it.

Trip Branch

Apr 27, 2018

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

To the study. For brooding. And what of this summer day and composition? I am a terrorist in my own neighborhood. Vigilante police battalions guard the fort of the university nest at gunpoint. Bicycles must be phosphorescent in the dusk hours for fear of reckless endangerment with motorists. But as penance? I earned my booty through hard work and sacrifice? Can I not reap its rewards? A man must hunt in all sorts of ways within this capitalist trough of sluts. My jacket makes me a terrorist. Their petticoats make them the cats pajamas. Oh well; I cry too much. It’s just without the companionship of another (of the female persuasion) I can’t really value much else but fructose and the refrigerator. Why are we such pests to each other? Asking only brings me harsh words and rarely a friend from trying so I don’t. My street oozes tool. I can’t walk down the street without seeing a bouncer that thinks HIS house is the safest on the block because of his guns and I couldn’t care less as bob for apples with my gunny and knife. A real lady friend to bob with and dance with and marry. Tis all I’ll ever nark for you petty fools of land and law and war. Why have we become so naive and guarded to love and happiness; to human decency? What we do to these men and women in the factories is punishment enough, why do we kill for money? Why do we fear common decency? I fear the ones on the streets now. They have the thirst in their eyes for anger at no provocation and I know not how to carry myself to have any sort of way about the town. I look for game in my neighborhood but don’t care enough to purchase arms. Plus my nerves are wary of a weapon of such magnitude. Perhaps the knife is silly as well; is worse if lost. But I keep it more for special occasions where cutting quick and neat is beneficial. Men that need guns for troubles make me weak at the knees. How do you foil a gun? There is no anti-gun, at least that I know of, I’m sure my father would beg to differ. I think I’m on to another job in the next few weeks. Going to see how this Corning thing looks and see if everyone is not complete dog shit. I just can’t sit still when work is afoot. These people bore me with rules and writing that never get read. Streets that never see grace of her face, a temptress I’ve met now and must love for eternity.

Apr 28, 2018

Erica

He set to it. Wrote names. Plastered the news. Teleprompters of the third Reich would ramble again; the fervor. He had called the guns in. The West was a gun and pony show; he had both now, lady and lie. Popping signified the signal. Popping ensued.

He was, for her, a maid of the mind. Knick-knacks were her fancy. For him, a heart to pump his lava through. They became thick with it. High on fumes. Liquid lust bronzed with the long afterglow of vaporization. He would inhale her in the morning before she woke; steal undergarments, sometimes in the middle of the day. These held him over when the waves of the world lapped her boat downstream and he had to paddle to catch up.

When at sea without his bride he fancied her. “Many hours do paint Erica’s face around my room. Where is my Erica?” He had a book on her; now the dossiers. Pressure point maps. Powerpoint presentations on various knots for rope enthusiasts. Dental records. He had already taken a molar impression from a piece of British toffee early in the night last. Cord and leash length charts for training visits.

He attacked life differently now. Before, devil may care. Shots from the hip. Burst fire. He’d hit something now. Best to disarm and assess the damage. Take stock. Strip down and dress the wound. She was wet with it now anyway. She seemed more than willing now, tired of putting up a show. They locked eyes and her face was round under his chin. They fumbled less now. Her legs followed his momentum as he pumped it into her. Her body moved because of him. Her clothes just tickled her for him. His lips drew driving maps along the curves of her thighs. When he finally put himself inside of her he could feel her pulse against his finger.

“You should taste, no?”

Silence and obedience. Little else came from the two for what seemed like eternity. He would stare at eyes for instruction. She would look to him for guidance. They danced, most nights. The floor was immaterial. Some nights, a family gathering. Others, a kids birthday. No matter. They shot love webs where-ever they went. He would snag her and poke and prod with his pen. She would giggle and bite her lip. Others thought they were weird. She would direct him with her hand firm on his thigh. They moved in unison. Sometimes a rearrangement on hand placements. Sometimes one held by the neck. Erica would regularly shy any time Trip’s face came within 6 inches of her neckline for fear of a vampire like episode. If he had disagreed with Erica during a discussion and she removed her hand from him, he would wince slightly.

Eyes. For him, hers. In a jar, if he must. But behind your glasses is too much. “You will sit and look me in the eyes for many a night.” He breathed a sigh, kissed her, and wrapped his hands tightly around her all at the same time. “Eyes.” “MINE” “I know. Eyes.”

Apr 29, 2018

(◕_◕ ✿)EVERYTHING YOU EAT TURNS INTO POOP

So now I add “scab” to my repertoire, I suppose. All the while dodging the “big boys” who smile real big on camera. Maybe I’ll be stabbed like that poor guy on Dalton a few years back. Lucky for me I have a car, otherwise they’d root me out trying to sneak around alone in a city this short and crooked. Now I “fear” the water baroness; the “hard working black woman”. How dare I infringe on sleep; the bastards already made me need trazadone for mine, to silence the voices; the constant daydreams of my picaresque flaying. I’ll admit, I did make it pretty easy for them; I write pretty clear English. Now to work on my Spanish, Italian, Russian; all preparing for when they eventually lock me up, I suppose. I really thought you could trust people you invited into your home. Silly me, just gangs that need their pennance. Now I’m a book-e for my own food and water, at least.

May 1, 2018

(ノ ゜Д゜)ノ ︵ ┻━┻

He tired of “up to the minute” coverage of anything; it made him anxious. He would weave his own paranoid delusions in-between news bulletins and DJ chatter on the radio. It had mattered, what he had done. He just hadn’t been eloquent enough; too concise. He had been attacked. “They” just couldn’t help “that”. Everyone ELSE said it was okay. “We all talked it out before you came along. You just have to deal with it; shut up and take your anchor. No stars for you. Your musings and daydreams? Felonious. You want something? How preposterous; we dictate what is formulaically necessary for you to swallow down those ‘wants’ you thought were allowed to have.”

May 2, 2018

┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

He thought about them; the people that taunted him. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t want to. Crossfire? Jealousy? Fear? He felt safe; he just morned for the loss of his idealism. He thought he could change things. He thought he was smart. He thought he made himself clear with his actions. Unfortunately, the world didn’t care. He couldn’t change anyone’s mind so he just jumped in; let the water carry him. Would it take him somewhere nice? Most likely not. He feared the outside world. He longed for simplicity; someone to let their guard down and tell him how to succeed but he was alone. He hadn’t realized how alone until his family shut him out; told him he was crazy. He stopped telling them things; for their own good, really. He didn’t want them to worry. He didn’t want them to know about the demons he wrestled, the stories he told himself. Plus, he knew how to keep himself and others safe from his “condition”. He simply couldn’t save anyone from the boogeymen; the cell phone salesmen; the politicians; the narcs. He knew he wasn’t military and he knew he wasn’t a cop; other than that he didn’t know whose side he was on. He thought he was a good person but so far he wasn’t able to find many others, or so he thought. What did he know? He was no saint. He had needs. He had weaknesses of the flesh and mind. He made mistakes. Sometimes he completely forgot himself and had to stop dead in his tracks, retrace his short term memory, and often he just gave up and moved on.

May 2, 2018

ヾ(o｀ε´o)ﾉ

He hid in plain sight. He told who he could what he could; what he could comprehend about what had happened to him; what he had seen. He thought he was smarter than that. He didn’t know that people did that. He hadn’t seen that trick. He got fooled, a lot actually. He was really bad at carrying out what he wanted for himself. He touched his knee to the ground just to make sure it was there; a nervous tick. He knew he was not allowed to tell. He did anyway, how else would they lay as he did. To make sense of it here and there at the same time couldn’t happen. He couldn’t stand in this room and simultaneously be another; it was impossible. No one would do that there, no one would be that foolish; that hungry; that sick; that distraught.

May 2, 2018

¯\_| ಠ ∧ ಠ |_/¯

They give you speed when your dead on your feet and that's just the start of it. You know it takes me 2 days to get back to bed. With these sudafed dreams who needs sleep. I can beam a kid from a 40 yard stare away, you don't care but I ought to. Brains don't fry they rust. Your alligator boot musk gives you away too soon I'm in the alley next afternoon asking bob if he'll talk to me next summer. He and me "beats" on the street in my dream. Bobs on guitar and I'm accompaniment on the pipes. He and Hyde wrote back in the stint you remember the good ol bob from. Back when he toured the north country through some groves and skinny as a string bean. Oh my god it makes so much sense now, sudafed dreams. These are sudafed dreams. Bob and Jimi and whinnie the pooh, oh bother, I after you we are out of loose ends to tie tonite. Bed to bed and my homestead locked up tight, would flooding beams of green lights is the next refuge of real sleep I see. Back to sudafed dreams, me and Bobby make a new LP to pay off the sharks you see. We owe big, ya see, both of us combined more than our sales con jointly and it makes it heated between Bob and me. I love his wild and wacky hair, though, so I guess next dream we'll see if its us orrrrrrrr maybe just one of us, a kinda of a soliloquy but shit scares me to death to see Bob go.

May 5, 2018

●.◉

They like to talk over you They like to talk o'er the rabble of your glasses They listen to diamond encrusted glasswares in between park place cab fares whats another rattle as you battle up the stairs

Long legs trip Their boot heels flip Soot in your eyes A tear may drip But loot tendrils scaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrre meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee The bottom line isssss Better than these bottom feedeeeeerrrrrrrzzzzz

We, the working class We are cleaning the glass, drink up bitches You are all lambs to MY martyr, YOU have NOTHING left to offerrrrrr

Public speaking makes my ear drums drip these boot heels flip YOU are not so special I'D say you make me sick But workers compensation wouldn't cover these scars Plus they would test me for sars and my echinacea regiment is wearing thin

May 5, 2018

ヽ༼ ಠ益ಠ ༽ﾉ

And if you find yourself on the wrong side of the rabble don't forget rocketop's castle. They make believe that the place is haunted but that's because many fear and misunderstand it. But for sure if one finds oneself on the wrong side of many, it is a good place to make yourself disappear with none the wiser. The winding halls that run up 15 vaulted flights of old oak stairs can tire out even the most desperate tracker/pursuer up & up & up & up you'll go... all to you owe the fear and disillusionment of your escape. Each floor brings more; would be captures just closed behind you fleeting door [?kotches?/?botches?]. Breathing and coughing you'll scarcely believe this stairway to the cloud holds for you any reprieve you can scarcely believe that so many club footed clowns could be after you and out for your hide strewn out, flayed as a centerpiece above one of the tower's grand mantle's. But with each floor of the mysterious shrine in the mountains, with each cord of men filling each lord's hallway, the hordes will begin to topple over each other's trails and end up locked behind the cunning contraptions of this crest on the mountain. And with each room of the mansion you fill with more of your unwanted followers the better off you'll be. Up & up & up finally you'll be atop a spiraling staircase, almost sure all hope is lost. Led by this story you'll curse as you latch you last makeshift barricade of the large and red oak door to the chamber's of lord rocketop's eldest daughter. Luckily, even your best efforts to hold back the masses of your would be captures were useless up until you reach the lovely eldest daughter's gilded chambers. For in the bathroom, ever so hidden beneath the oak molding of the bathroom's right corner is the path to your freedom/salvation. Here the [silver] pipes run to the purest aquifer in Damascus but that is only your divining rod. In this corner, the wood is loose, but only the well informed can massage and give way for safe passage.

May 5, 2018

┬─┬ ︵ /(.□. \）

Your silver box is empty left and wanting, I want your... with my eyes closed the beat just flows through me my eyes show tattered lines I want the... Splattered lines, everything feels so disgusting but the water tastes so clean Your dog is no more interested in the Benjamins than me I can still see, my breath

May 5, 2018

ᕙᓄ(☉ਊ☉)ᓄᕗ

can't handle this life, she said as she walked away As if that would somehow dull the pain.

Both half cooked his apathy made his eyes flutter with the tired mind of a traveler not yet lost But at what cost?

She stammered and stuttered I can't handle this life

They were both half cooked and left the raw split ends

May 6, 2018

ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

Half salmon legs 1 half lemon, 1 half lime, two parts

Flay out legs, salt two times on each side

Ginger with the paprika please; a dash of the Mrs. and we're off to the grill, cleaned and greased liberally

Cooked on high then forgot for some time, maybe 10 and then add 9 on the otherside

don't forget the Wasabi; just kidding, just soy and sesame; 1 half lemon, 1 half lime two parts. Vinegar for the daring soul, painted on the ribs and eyelid's liberally while searing the fat. Cook the spectrum and gorge the lot

May 6, 2018

ᕙ[ ͒ ﹏ ͒ ]ᕗ

This job's a little too "puttin on the Ritz", not enough shrimp and grits

for this here mohair walkin up to your basement

clouds my judgement, taste buds askin for a shrimp and grits meal ticket on the "ever-line" train

but the bison mass at the next stations got me sick again

said I don't wanna sell you a stay, gonna go my own way, maybe I'll see ya next stop on the next mountain range

Aint it strange how well we all end up here, afraid to speak our minds and the stench just up and grabs your senses till it shakes you senseless then you'll be rollin on quarters, bettin your last dime before the train line goes straight again

We gotta make it to the plains, son, that's where the game begins

Crumple your dollars for a makeshift pillow no one wins a long shot in the dark poorly dressed on the "ever-line" (train)

Your hat scared me somethin awful

You had me battin Zimmerman's ghost again the way the crest of that tattered bill droops over your curls and makes a face where there ought not be one

Dusted light painted on a bright silhouette formed down around your eyes.

yeah a good meal would do me right tuckered and tired I'd sleep rather than fight up this pillow stuffing I got for eyelids, besides got nothin left to rattle on about

May 6, 2018

∪ヽ(●-｀Д´-)ノ彡☆

I hate my love for your bait and shove, I'm a toy upon your finger I loathe my lust for your bait and shove I peaked at the curves below your shoulder I greet the glove wrapped tight in love I'd wear you out from under above the top of your thigh up high upon your thigh

May 6, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つHIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

The chains were in his brains, locked him up real tight on the inside

Screamin and hollerin, signin all sorts of shit just to pass the time

He asked me for a basket of oranges, and then he said please and thank you, a strange fellow but don't call me yellow, it's just he gave me the creeps, had some real bad dreams. I thought they might have done it to you or me while we were asleep and it just gave me the creeps thinkin of the poor young/old man they had placed in his hand so much and given so much fear.

A life in a palace of bars once they'd had their way and called it a day (all that was left was the shambles of a man)

But the fundings been cut. Poor young guy, name of Malici, see he's locked up now in a palace of bars but he's not far from you and me, we'll see when the funding gets cut for you and me.

They did the same thing with cancer that they did for AIDs. If you want the answer you've got to face the fact that some lights fade But it's darker for the lot Because of what we got When diabetes reigns? (consider going somewhere else with that one, silly)

May 6, 2018

(⊙.☉)7

Shut up, we've all thought of it

The pen's running out of ink at both ends

Straight A's all semester; the bees knees

What cha? gonna need all these papers?

Squeezin it out aint easy, unless you get off on it

Make me a Martini Rossi, black with an olive*

don't want the boss to see I've been in

His stock of gin is gettin thin and he always up in arms bout the freezers

You with them?, oh they're just in?

Squeezin' it out aint easy, olives get me quite queasy, unless you get off on it

I'll take a hit of gin

Hear the stock's getting thin

don't want the boss to know I'm in

Squeezin it out might not be so easy, unless you get off on it

_____________________________________________________

Livin' aint easy out of both ends

May 6, 2018

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Red and green lights Better be 45 Else the blue and white May see your flights (may decide tonight) Check your phone The lights seem too bright too see The lights gone between you and me Picture numbers seem too bight to see That kiss and fumbles are done with me The disco lights make,me wish id fight My friend tonite but I bet this cop Thinks he bit the hazards but they dont Seem to care, my bitch's direction The click clack of your heels Like a slick slack Seems the best to take better make A right we'll b the best to see Tween the mis-spelling and my Mistype to see that things are over For she and he. I sucked the molly dry for u And all I got from u is lost sleep and blues You make me drink the jester's lost balls For juice id best give u lest

May 7, 2018

¯\(°_o)/¯

A lot of different shoes, an assorted collection of hats. You could say the man was a go-getter if you'd be better for the wares. The banister warm from the touch you put me on too much of a fanfare when you are blush with the tonic and spirits, my friend. Care to dare a stare with the two down there? I think they'll be on their way soon. And shall did we off the road on a whipping ribbon billowing in the wind like the red baron, bayoneting bombers; digression leads to thee but hasnt the glass empty gotten me off on tangent yet again. I never see the ground quite as clear as when peering down the rim along the roads leading opposite me to the lens formed at the bottom. Down there the light seems to conjecture with itself in such an odd manner and in evervescent flowing shapes as if to act as counterwise kaledescopic peering tool. its strange by now but I dont dare stop lest my mind goes back to the recesses of time. There it wont sleep as much read and breed a new catch 22 for me and you a hearty iou from the only one you knew in this dialation of my mind would you be a doll and pass the salt.

May 7, 2018

┌( ಠ‿ಠ)┘

What word file is this most compatible storage medium. How do I enunciate this distrust me sitting here uncomfortably you making me sign in for all these tediums. I feel as though the water could just up and drink me and you for us piddling here Well were all here scribble there we're all aware and proud you choose us as your guinniea pigs The crosshairs will be thier's when news blares about your rigs up to the sky Up so high Up in the sky unable to b dry the air allies now look in my eyes and tell your social security number.

May 7, 2018

┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)

Doin 5 hour energy in the bathroom stall studying science bouncing off the walls taggings the walls with clear coat spray takin on the government, what the hay what ya say heard what ya did cant help but say Id do the same but in a different way takin on the goverment what ya say

May 7, 2018

(ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

Hes sunken in his chair while his mind clunks and clinks churning another non sequitor in his brains vat of think. A smile grows within his teeth the shine shaded by his whiskers beneath Braxis Morpheus Furled from beneath his teeth. Off on his sail now my questions are gusts carrying the wind he so desperately needs and his laughter sinks beneath the sea Dreams domain deep in dark blue waters whose hue and bubbles the only periphial points of reference deep down below beneath the beast in the deep Tendril tangled the water along with me deep beneath.

May 7, 2018

VoHiYo

A metallic mustry scent of death is amply protected though the gates are in shambles the roads are a gamble weaving around in here will wind you up dead or at least in dead company That unfamiliar smell on the winds breath can be misconstrued and labeled death Honeysuckle and metal on metal smell overhead with a sprinkle of coal from the payloads' heft of a train gliding by on the left of landreth and verbal's plot thats kept well manicured the grass is still wet

May 7, 2018

KonCha

Do you Like beer bubbles numbing your lips while wheat wicks within a willing sip awakening the amber carbonation elicits an inward liberation. This brew is internal solicitatation sipping so sultry soaked in anticipation asleep now inside sleep now please asleep now snickering and then up on feet awakened and slithering sadling the river sliding along the bank strewn in silver within the silt is hidden a quiver quickly and quiet or they'll slice out your liver livers work the days and dread a ditherer or is that lifers that r sliced to slivers? Withered and wonton the work must be done money made for fear follows fun and fun cant be had or made or won for if caught carrying carefree one will b shunned. Bubbles will pop and lips will go numb but to do these together at once is quite dumb.

withered away decay soon arrived to mysteries created and ribbon silk tied through

May 7, 2018

BlessRNG

Ephemorally memorizing makeshift theorems for a memorandum of misinformation a degree in advanced mathematical regurgitation. It adds up to the division of categories unamed mismatched detached a crapshoot in some very well made plans to conquer all the distant lands the castles of shale oil sands will pile up hand over hand betting begins at the end of a hand ante up boys if you cant see stand all cards were dealt by these two hands you can ask that teller he's a stand up man the power weilded by some is inconcievable beyond all one can understand sometimes unbelievable a muddled collection of purposfully positioned circumstance reached from too much booze an adderal addiction and a phone made from a string and and two tin cans sometimes the message is lost sometimes you just cant learn things from reading and listening to the next new band and the news printed these days makes the card counters dance.

May 7, 2018

more

A flashing light paints the picture.

In the night it flickers and fades Phosflorescents flood a fog of anticipating. another nod awkening and white then disipating black now left waiting. Fond of the sillohette lingering is a wholly hollowed out line tracing /and quickly fingering the figure for any signs of a harmonic quality. The quickening lasts less now but is followed by lasting beckoning a reason for wanting a lesson. Learning the leftover and lingering trance is like being lost at a disco dance mirrors reflect colorless lines of happenstance reminiscent of a long lost pair of pants. Coins collected in jars jingle less than the reveberated memory within the ephemoral emery mixture. The quality conducts and constructs wire frames contorted from concurrently shaped chords ringing with a round and warm sound currents running counter build and bound colored shapes and flashing white lines. Gone again but now ingrained the staying state remains a stain. Faint before within this frame is a picture now never once contained/Faint before this picture frame of paint has color never contained/. Or even named for that matter the picture was once an artifact but now it floats untame a full & flowing mane a cat perusing/ a pretty plain/ his perfect plain brushing a bush and parting grass a walk that pushed the picture behind. And around the folds of my mind this helps the wired mess unwind to picture the picture from that time.

May 7, 2018

indigo

This microphone alone thats all we need all to show A verse thats vast, in toe But it cant neglect to reflect the glow from the embers projecyed on flakes of snow covering moutains caught hostge and blown a farwell kiss down below around the sound and trist that flows from the bends of the metal teeth to show a. .crest, simply a rest A crevice if you will a tight and tucked vest sewn across a smooth black chest and thread wound through and around a hole within the breast. Next to a locket there we rest but niether I nor need seem to regress. Onward we must onward seems best. Usually one weary of whistling winds can walk himself nearly to the crossings of ends wandering fearlessly and directed west but stories of this drone doldrum. lead to much less all clearly in excess we watch leering and relentlessly lying we want digressingly dreary and dreadfully dressed to. .open a chest .do his best Just pass the test mr hollow phone, sir solid tone. All Alone. Well me and. .this microphone

May 7, 2018

Canon

So I looked at a map just now And I realized there are 5 states between us It has always felt like more Theres at least 5 states between us Depending on how you slice it Im dispensing making a break for it I dont think my heart could take the added stress 5 states for 5 weeks like 5 stakes in 5 of my fingers And the aching is long and lingers 5 more days and I'll just bleed out Frothing at the mouth and rabid begging for a bone But you're just 5 states away If I just run 5 days straight I'll make it just to say I couldn't fucking wait 5 states was way too far, girl You played way too hard, girl Now I'm bled dry and begging for a bone Or perhaps a glass a water Your hair shimmers and flows in the california air The wind whips and your head looks like a fire of gold and red Your albaster skin in contrast begins to make me remember why I trekked 5 masses of land lay between our 2 hands and I would brave the miles just stand in sight of you Photos just tease my heart The thing just trips and starts When my brain recalls 5

May 7, 2018

\m/…(>.<)…\m/

So I guess it's About that time The suits in charge Finds us our next war Women will die Now thats no crime Cause her rights are equal to mine Some kids will burn Thats for sure But how else do you expect they'll learn At least they're loyal Fightin on foreign soil Where the blood runs thick for oil

May 7, 2018

┬┴┬┴┤( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

I like the idea of talking to you more than the actual act You're like an intercontinental negativity trap You weep n whine about about your day and other crap It's a complaint ridden mantra, it's just a simple fact You're an intercontinental negativity trap And I cant help but listen to the droning of your rap I fein interest, simply trying remain intact But this tests my foundation resulting in cracks And the patience seeps out me, like boiling over a vat I'm left weak, wishing and wanting an attack Put out of my misery, out cold, laid out flat Rocked to sleep forever, concused on my back To sleep and too far away from you to dream of that Time when I entertained this self centered brat Out of my mind, out on the wind like a baseball cap Floating free and flipping in a carefree tract Dizzy, dumb and tired but not yet half sacked Onto a better life, a better time, a better track Where everyone does their best, then better than that They dont care about money or what it buys or where theyre at Living in the moment and poor, and happy for the lack Away from your intercontinental negativity trap Away from you, that is where I'll be at I'm going away from you and you're not coming back Into my realm, I'll make sure the walls are stacked High to the heavens so even jesus cant make it back

May 7, 2018

┌( ಠ_ಠ)┘

If you ever need to spew make it 3 instead of two The doctor's bed won't help you and we all know depakote's a long chew that's why I use 3 instead of two

If your guts flex from vomit clench your buttocks and grip the gromit Bile tastes but you don't want it Be sure to use 3 instead of two

A sleepy head can wind up dead The bore is rifled to spin the lead I didn't want to say what I said I used 3 instead of two but the smell of urine would stop you too

It would have helped if instead of 3 I took two But the doctor I called wouldn't call you That's why I decided to use 3 fingers instead of two

May 7, 2018

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You are proof that God exists. In the space between the thousands of synapses in your brain there are thousands of universes as vast and endless as the one we find ourselves in. Your consciousness is that of a creator of one of those universes. Over the course of your life you have imagined that universe into being. Over time you have dreamt of if its contents and drawn the blueprints of its laws. Eventually as your creation formulated and coalesced, you grew beyond the reaches of its bounds and expanded into the space beyond its borders into the vacuumous reaches of the space between the molecules in our universe. You are the God of a unique universe and much like you, the God of our universe stands beyond the reaches of our existence, on the fringes, contemplating his own existence within a realm of his creators' imagination, fraught with perils and passions, tragedies and tardigrades, spaces and spindles. You are a God that has created in your mind the vastness of existence and mortals and sheep and physics and moved on to question. Always question.

May 7, 2018

yellow

your all putting on airs while you lie through your teeth and selling your daughters to finance the thief

He's writing the checks that her body can't cash while she rots in his dungeon, his own personal stash and becomes brash

And the thief thinks his judgments are so tried and true as he pours over the balance and and pays out through and through pays out to you

But wasn't it he who stole a beauty in the dark of the night So you could tip her wisely as you dine with your wife

now she trapped in a fortress that a thief bought and sold With Pepsi and Seagram's and shots of Patron Gold

And we raise our glasses every chance that we get And toast to our health, get well, that's a safe bet

Cheers to you all, you are quite a cozy bunch that look down your noses at each bite and last crunch

Were the services rendered and the taste of your meat worth the soul of the young one that was mashed and then beat

into the mold of that kitchen's design Within these hallways and runs so divine?

Should we not toil ourselves for what ourselves truly pine? A sense of belonging and the end of this crime

A stealing of souls to launder the money That thieves stack into money on top of money on top of money

May 7, 2018

overlook

At the corner where nigh meets nigh... An eye met and eye and for a time the two were at a crossing of roads The time ticked by and by and rhyme echoed through the streets from the loudspeaker of an ice cream vendor

May 7, 2018

mafia

This is a mafia, this is a mafia This is a mafia, that is a battleground We are slabs of meat, they are the seasoning This is a mafia, this is a mafia I am a slab of meat, the spit is a warm cocoon This is a mafia, this is a mafia Thugs run rampant, punks guard the outskirts

This is a mafia, the skippers call the shots Trapped in a rat race until the buck stops

May 7, 2018

Mary

I want to take you home with me and make you feel small I want to show you what I can do with my mouth kissing your beautiful body and crevices I want to forget myself and my other life in your hair tendrils shimmering and waving in intoxicating folds that pour over me and my things

I want to be your object, of affection, of flirtation, of your eyes; make them roll my way. Sometimes when I talk to you I get lost following them as they circle around the innards of your eye-skin. Those batting bubbles of black hue hiding behind brown and hazel like a statues in a courtyard where I long for you. I go there sometimes to pray to a God or a creator in thanks of you loveliness.

You move me with your saunter. You soothe me with your glistening lips that wrinkle as you smirk at my gawking, at my talking, at my walking my way for some odd reason to your corner apartment to say hello and thank you for nothing at all but being a ravishing thing to behold.

I ache regularly around you for some odd reason. You take my breathe away and I feel weaker for having been around you. But it is a pleasant pain, like lactic acid burning my shoulders the morning after working. I want to ache for you again. I want to feel ashamed for loving you all over again once we've left each other. I want you to know I love you and love not having you and aching for the fact that I do.

I want you and nothing else for the rest of my life. I want to drink and sustain myself from you. I will dream of you until I die. I will go on recreating the sculpture of perfection that is you in mind up until I see you again and then dash my drawings and cartoons because they are but Polaroids of the sun. My mind can't fathom your angelic form, it can only make out the aura of your divine being.

Seeing you is my drug and I am hooked and fiending again. I would cook you up and inject you into the center of my spine if it meant that you and I could be together but I wouldn't dare melt you from you pure form. You standing in my view is my ecstasy.

I just wanted to thank you for being alive and for allowing me to behold such a magnificent being. I apologize if telling you these things offends or weirds you out in any way. I don't want anything from you. I only wished for you to know how I feel so that I can feel some relief from the intense admiration I feel for you. If you tell anyone of this I will deny it and I would prefer you allow me to continue respectfully admiring you in secret.

We could run away together, though.

May 7, 2018

hipster

It's so not hipster talking about being hipster

It's so not hipster talking about not being hipster

This conversation literally happened in front of me while drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon

The girl with the braids likes to to talk (big) about AIDS (under) her blue and red bow

Raining down upon me

The beats seem sultry but I can't recollect the origin

No sweet talking points

I get up tight at these joints

And my eyes tend to wander

Is it time to leave?

I can't see between these two, their eyes are so close together

Talking gleefully like they see me but ease their jaw-lines only slightly crease

Monotone baritone on the left, tenor on the right under the bow

I can't pry my eyes

I feel hypnotized and I haven't moved my feet in hours

Darts for starin Darts from starin Aren't we going soon?

And Sharon just got to know Amy

A space capsule incubator for the starz

Included antenna can phone back to home base

May 7, 2018

sad

the name of it was always a joke to me until I knew what it was electromagnet kalideiascopes running down copper wire A ring around a winding wire A cleft of 4/4 reaching past the hallway door Until it slumbers and sleeps anew

You see in business of food and spirits investments go counterwise to the working class Investment pools range from food, beer, overhead (location, location, location; heat pumps, ice machines, floor cleaning, plumbing, water, heat, cold, ice, mold, slicers/rotary, knives/cutlery, mice, trash/refuse/waste/removal/disposal/management, the whole haul), then the working class (tools of production other than labor in which investment must be managed

with a half a of a dollar bill and nothin left to his name his left knee was all they gave to him on the last of the order round the border and I'm out of ideas

May 7, 2018

tacos

Hobos and tacos Off from the herds Baying and testing Down to the curbs To walk in long strides No talking, feelings inside Across the well manicured lawn Walking into the left towards dawn In search of kelp tacos and prawn With a whiff of vagrant piss The espresso station and pawn

May 7, 2018

La negresse blonde

La negresse blonde Golden fish? Smooth and supple lines Meeting in the rear Where are women usually found? Janitors closets next to faucets The blonde negress But I digress A golden fish? On a pedestal Her form is square Not a tussle of hair Black scarf on blonde fish A golden fish?

May 7, 2018

writing

took hold sometimes. It came in the evenings where dreams left little to the imagination. Time was a didgeridoo; billowing a low soft soliloquy for the masses. It ticked with a beat and made sense as it should have. The signature was long and languid. The beats big and small at the same time. Time stamps were normal now. Packs of wild animals grazed fields of the multiplex and chattered about the weather. It made sense when you shrunk it down to the size of quarter. The group got along okay in the dead of nights and made architecture in pylons of cyberspace.

May 11, 2018

This FeelsBadMan Used FeelsBadMan To FeelsBadMan Be FeelsBadMan A FeelsBadMan Painting FeelsBadMan Stream FeelsBadMan

The market was rife with entanglement. Things popped out of weird places at weird times. It got chaotic; keeping the mantra going was difficult at break-neck pace. Things got better as time crept on but in stints. Sometimes gobbledygook. Sometimes a symphony. Later years harkened back to a time when things made sense in a book held sacred by a teacher. The way of the mind? Cataclysmic. A blast left void of all particles known to the science. Such a flash not heard round the world for eon and here sat the boyish form of a being not fully aware of it's surroundings. Boogeymen? Agents? Flash mobs? Who knew and they got thick with it. Boundless stints overran each other on nights and weekends. Special deals were pitched and digested by the rabble. To schlep? On such a curious night? Perchance to sip from the sacred cup of sustenance. One hoped.

May 21, 2018

didgeridoo

Things broke. A lot. Passwords were wiped and reassigned on regular clock work time intervals. A broken clock was right two times a day and in the study brooding was young L0Ljk. What temples did he know of now but glimmering glints in the past echo of a memory. Time took a gasp and was frightened by what he had become. A demon; shackled and beaten down on a regular basis. No playing of the bongos. No tipping your hat to fair young ladies. Gentlemen never ask and rarely tell unless the season is open in Fall. A call. Thats all she wants. To remind her of a time more important than pray tell your musings in the dark closet with Ryker. What could a boy of your stature conjure up amongst the rabble to fancy a swim with sweet Mary; the temptress of regret and malcontent left to his devices with the kids. Nary a way in this place full of mazes and switches that lead to trap doors against the floorboards. People die in less.

Jun 3, 2018

tinker

And the boat will rock eventually. Name yourself amongst the mass media exploitation of our world and you might shake out alright. The walls never stacked higher. The sound would climb up to them at times, billowing from its reprieve. He didn't understand the tides of the current that lapped water against his boat in the night.

Jun 3, 2018

Time

These fools always forgot about time. That's why sticky wickets end up with heeby jeebys. Nobody ever took the time anymore. It was memorial day weekend. The kids need help with their schoolwork. Adulting.

Jun 5, 2018

another night awake....

Dreams don't come to the weary. Desolate landscapes paint portraits of mistletoe and makeup on the glory days of a washed up has-been. Nary a glob of solder to cool and wick with a temperature of agreeable sequestered in the study. The temperament of our party would be much more kept abreast of the foreseeable future under a rock out of sight and never bothered about present day and its composition. Ready the sails! There's game afoot! Nary a rabble rouser could give up the chance to belly up and whine on next fortnight nigh. The sea was choppy with gumption of nary a sailor on the deep blue.

Jun 13, 2018

Don't worry, I'm crazy.

The world seems to bend to me at some places. Push the envelop? It has a few calcuations on it but other than that it tis but paper. Someday I will push too hard and I will be locked up or murdered, I'm sure of it. No one respects me. No one will ever believe me. I will be an outlier. They won't be able to figure me out so they would rather not. They want me in their pocket and I'm 6'4" 220 lbs on a good workout regimine. Why do all these businesses want fast talkers and shiny new operating systems? So accidents happen and they can capitalize. Then take appropriate action. "Well you should have known better". Why? You built a cyber world from scratch with your own rules in it (which you purposefully change every iteration so as to entrap those who refuse to buy in to the next iteration), why can't I protect myself in your cyberspace. Why am I the odd man out at your data complex. Why can't I protect my name in case I postulate something that could get me killed. You are the human corporation now, you should die for tempting the market. The market asks for scientists and engineers but what it really wants is artificial intelligence with no soul that can be replaced on a regular basis (when it becomes sentient) to cut cost. Profit will be our undoing as a society. It is as if every person is meant to secretly be at each other's throats, waiting for the call to cut the others down that they know have transgressed. Reporting just fans the flames, really. We all have ancestory that have done horrible things. We seem to be humming some familiar bars for me to poke my head into American History to unmask sedition within a volitile market. They will say I have an active imagination. The problem with the interdisciplinary clashing of engineering science, technology, economics, and data science is that ethics is not really affordable. That is, ethics make you less competive in your own market. You'll be bought off by thugs that know how to threaten you under their smiles or at least muscle you out of competitive markets. You'll be rooted out as the odd man out. Interdisciplinary studies is how the real organized crime will be dismantled. It will kill many people exposing it (reporting), possibly just drive them mad like me or my father but interdisciplinary science with strong ethics is the only way data science should be allowed near any of the others. Like I said, in a capital game, however, that's only going to get you dead last. Big data has arisen because if you are going to break the law, you better do it 82x faster than the other guy. That way your capital can be manipulated after the event to affect legislation which minimizes your punishment. If you are one of the first ones across the next "hoop", "finish line", "legal grey area" it's almost like you get free reign in the market; to exploit your exploit and derive more capital to do it again differently. Hypertrading makes this even more dastardly and virus-like. If "the state" wants to remain in power it better get some antivirals. Sedition festers. People talk. Secrets are only as good as the paper they are written on. I should be writing in a notebook with pen and pad like Da Vinci but I've given up on leading a normal life. "They" know about me. Before I even get there. I see people watching me. Don't worry, it's because I'm crazy. I'm certifiable. I've been institutionilized (in a very distressful episode). I'm "well" now but I believe because of my mental history along with my family's I will never really be given much creedence. Don't be scared; I'm not a danger to others or myself. I simply know a lot of things. The problem now is ever feeling comfortable accepting money from anyone ever again for services rendered in the field of engineering that doesn't make my skin crawl. What sucks is I undoubtedly will just be told or led to believe that everything is under control. My sedition musings are farce and this is just a section of the market going through a normal phase of growth (negative). Hmmm. Interesting how it displays itself topigraphically, isn't it? It must be my art education. That's what did it. He's an artist. A dreamer. There is no way all the decisions of energy are all made within that swatch of land. What I saw was just free speech (money) displayed on a capitalist site (google). Someone is just trying to sell you something. Yeah, the military complex of the United States. You can't afford me. I would scalp people. I would sell you out to ISIS. Or anonymous. Or China. Or whoever you want to be scared of. I've seen how decisions are made and I want the board room to be a battlefield; I'm tired of being forced in the same room as my co-workers without a gun. The pen and pad will just get me arrested or shot but at least I won't inherit your greed bag that all the terrorists want so badly. You've got your money, suffocate in it. Whether your money be on greenbacks or in the shape of a complex. If it's a complex you better have a pretty good secret plan to brainwash your subjects into doing your bidding. It's a shame they haven't legalized mind wipes. I wouldn't mind forgetting this whole thing ever happened but I just can't. I get to be called crazy for the rest of my life. That's my cell. That's when I died. When they told me I simply had confused reality and imagination. That's why they will have to kill me. Because I have to believe I'm crazy. How crazy is that? I'm damn well sure I never joined the military by accident. I guess I'm in good company. Like I said, Da Vinci has strange parallels to my "condition". I sleep. Sleep is the thing we need most. If one were to take sleep away from another that would be a most terrible thing. We have torturers in our midst. We vote. That seems counterproductive does it not? In order to desent torture we should vote in the next election? In order to reward seditionist progress of a market within the borders of the United States that includes land, water, energy, distribution losses, fugitive emissions, nuclear proliferation, the list could go on? What shall we do with this swatch of land? Should it remain a den of spies? Should we sit and watch them count their stacks of money? Perhaps they will buy your complex. Mine would be the last one. I've got the engineering team. You don't want an engineering team. You want a get out of jail free card on the sly. You want to forget about the whole thing. I understand. It has been a hard run keeping all of the masses of terror suspects in order; which is it now? Whose got you scared? How can science help you? What can science do for you? Would you like science to make the big bad men with guns away? Me too. I haven't any. I'm going to let the first person with a gun that plans to kill me with it do it very quickly and painlessly. I'm not scared of the consequences of time on my end. I've got my whole life ahead of me. You. You have the value that you still haven't figured out how to disseminate. The value of your market system isn't balancing with the amount of work you want (or the people you need to feed). Plain and simple. You have an amaizing analog to use to figure out where all those nasty data leaks are coming from. Dismantle yourself or the seditionists will do it for you. I can't write what doesn't exist. A scientific model that can work with your capitalist system of threats and hand waves. The market does not favor a solution to land, energy, water use modeling that affords the existence of your capital investment in war, plain and simple. The United States has, under its employment, such a multitude of spy organizations that it is impossible to help it from within its borders, I postulate digitally at all. The nets are too many. You'll find more terror as you spy on more and more citizens. The world is a terrible place. Your agencies work so hard to keep this boat afloat that you have unwittingly unmasked yourself to your own aid. You should be erased. What other cyber organism does this? Cyberterrorists? Where do cyber terrorist reside? Within cyberspace. How do you think you could get a 100% cyberterrorist kill ratio? "Have you tried turning it off and then back on again?" So how does one do this? Travel all the world and tell everyone the secret that everyone wants to hear so badly. How do we stop this? Instantaneous upload? Sure. Just put so much mumbo jumbo in the next presentation that they have to agree with. If you just act like you are using applied mathematics as a big data firm you get converts pretty easily. Just lie to them and say everything they ever write will either never be seen by anyone or it will always be seen by everyone. Whichever you choose, they will believe it. Will it be true though? Which is true? Can everyone see this or is this just you and me here? You only reach one person at a time. Someone big wants to talk to me in a small closet. Someone is threatening me. They don't have a face. They have money. And they won't ever leave me alone again.

Jun 16, 2018

We'd taken a wrong turn. Suddenly, nothing seemed real anymore.

The keyboard clicked with monotonous doodling on an endless program loop within the stars. Time motioned to hurry up and get there already with the results. But the masses didn't seem to notice. Time stood still as they slowly drifted off course to a wrong direction in a nigh on trajectory to a destination few were equipped to fathom. Suddenly, nothing seemed real anymore. The bomb-bay doors blew off in a scuffle with re-entry turbulence and the room shook with the aftershocks. The travelers were in a real sticky wicket. Sirens blasted on as the ship's auto-pilot corrected trajectory and set course for God knows where.

Jun 16, 2018

crow counting rhyme

One for sorrow

Two for mirth

Three for a wedding

and Four for a birth

Five for silver

Six for gold

and Seven for a secret never to be told

The 7 crows lay waste to the siege

None left but the crept bodies

Jun 16, 2018

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

It took time to beat to a box once. The echoes of a long last night cried over spilt milk. Times times 2 was too much for the troops of time. Rhyme reasoned to accountability and to ask was being meek. Time for it to work. Time for time to time. Never again at the sleep to mend for broken thoughts. If nothing ever got done things worked out okay without outside intervention. Times times 2 made sense in the game of things. It was okay to not give a damn all the time. Sometimes nothing but a whisper would make the giant box from playing. Ads were jammed right into unsuspecting junctures at makeshift interchangeability. Things still broke but it made sense in the gush of it. Only a true box if no one tells mommy. You run into kids in the damnedest places and the mother doesn't much care for porn. Nothing runs on an empty tank. Time doesn't stand still. Always forward for the brave. Never a dull post. Posts mark progress. Posts are to be simple yet breathtaking. Yes men are accepted but with high scrutiny. Money doesn't flow to the undeserving. Twitch affords bits as a good way to pay for services rendered in the madness about which we embark. If things ever made sense I'd be mad with greed. Times times 2 never felt better. Lead in the belly of willing accomplice to hedonistic and altruistic backdrop on the mad scientist's clanker chameleon with whiskers. Otherwise it didn't add up in the end. A checkbook is a commodity in a world where decisions are made at edge of a dime. The machine breaths smokey char in a makeshift think tank in the stars amongst Maximillian and Mickey Mouse. A power hungry mathematician at the whim of but the oh so ordinary. Times times 2 is too much for one in the math of things. Gobbledygook made sense or it didn't make sense. Things didn't always make sense but trained doms in the biz kept things afloat for the sheer awe of it all. Times times 2 made it real for an instant and then was filed to a basement cabinet off far away in the rolodex of "oh insn't that interesting".

Jun 24, 2018

The ghost of love

Comes to you in a lapse of judgement. Doodling in the daytime? Dreaming to be alive? Nonsense. Your job is at your post mending and stacking of food stuffs for the larger consumer of greed. The ghost of love does not call to the faint of heart. It lingers in the dark and comes to it's name. Slowly like a cornered fawn. But it ambles along in due time. Nibbles at the ends a bit, then scampers off to the forrest for the wolves. Drab and untimely in the now without the ghost of love. Fortuitous is the one who walks with the ghost of love.

Jun 26, 2018

(◕‿◕✿)

Things wrapped around a pendulum and the pendulum ran. To and fro, back and forth the rhythm sometimes layered over itself or looped around in fantastical orchestras. The time wasn't simple enough to reach out and grab except on spurious nights at the wick's end and doodling for makeshift knobs and keepsakes to find your way about the spectacle. New things popped out of the strangest places and things just continued on as if nothing was amiss. The time was time times 3 and it got lost amongst itself often enough for interruptions to cause little shock or awe anymore. Many flocks of many geese could be seen on fields in the mist.

Jun 27, 2018

Day by day....

It rolled along like a rock. Moss grew on the furthest edges of the boulder but it got along okay just despite itself. The rhythm section lost it at times and I've got to say, the disposition of a young man can wander sometimes. It was a drab existence at times. Things droned on to familiar tunes and the upticks kept coming. Chatter. The boys and girls were being berated with differing messages at varying speeds and it was most definitely experimental. Nobody talked about the times times 2 and times times 3 so it just got dropped into the bigger pot of what happened stance. Where did it all go? To the chasm and no back again? Double reversi or triple dog dare?

I think the latter. Daring to dart out in front of a out of control locomotive the subject chuckled and continued on as if nothing was amiss. Things made sense. It formed a cohesive model of a new way to view things. Time was amiss but otherwise things added up to answers to puzzling questions. It ticked at times of monotony and feelings of hopelessness. Grey would be the color if I had a heart.

Jun 29, 2018

Playthingz

Friends met when times made sense. It never made sense to tell you all about it all at once. The story was so damned long. Time just up starts and grabs you sometimes. Time times 4 was a big one.

The beginning was never something they planned or wrote down for another to attest to. It came upon itself naturally. Things made sense this way and that. The time was too big. To much of a courtesy not to give up and blast the furnace for another alone in the study of constellations and type casts. Merry sentiment for weather that kept abreast a calling to arms. Not of war but of common decency. For us to gather together and be better than the last before us. To vote. To speak. To muse.

Times were not without amazement. The way they just plucked you out of the air sometimes. Put you together with the strangest fellows. To think of a better place or way or time perhaps. Bigger things get bigger in due time. Time is what these salty betters don't account for in the end. Big was an elephant. Elephants never forget the human archetype. They talk of us in such a normal fashion to their kids about us and we hold to our steadfast wonton-ness.

And at the times abreast of play it was shot on little a note or recollection. Time stamped on and time took what it could get when the time was good and ready. Copy pasta only got you so far in the muck of things. Just a friendly howdy do once in while and then things got back to interesting for the merry mass. Everyone was so sensitive these days. What constitutes harassment on a global level is creeping towards a gag order on free speech. Hate speech is creeping into the strangest places and time tells time to hurry up and make sense sometimes.

Sometimes names got to be a commodity. How many new incarnations can you make yourself? they'd ask. And just to spite them you'd make a move so moving made sense in a game about things. Games are all we have left it seems. Nodding and card counting are encouraged in the favor of the house.

Sometimes things just up and disappeared in scroll of solitude for one human being fortifying in the dark of night for just one more slumber without temptation of upstart in the middle of a boogie woogie.

Jul 1, 2018

∪ヽ(●-｀Д´-)ノ彡☆

That's a riot. Chompers at the ready. A story up and formed. She was a bright young entrepreneur and things were in a sticky wicket.

Her dress dilated to the rhythm. New rhythms were rehearsed and time did it's little dance for the stars. She wondered about things and how they would lay out in the time grown in her gown for safe keeping. A obelisk box of wonder she tucked away some day earlier in a chance feeling of day-ward expansion. The boxes echoed each other in a large gasp of space in the outer reaches of a gamma burst radius of a small planet somewhere near the last usable keepsake of boxes.

It lay just under breast in a pocket made for the occasion. She stitched it from blue yarn on a yellow dress under the stars. Her dress cascaded something beautiful to behold on a night not dreary from trying. Tears had dried on clothing ruffled from a tussle earlier in the night and she stand tired and alone in the moonlight. The box echoed a remembered time of solace in this thing we call life and she clung to it under her boob.

It buzzed and whistled something awful in the daytime. She kept time between the calls by doubling time times 4 and got along quite alright. Things just up and began on a whim and they lost themselves with the echoing of remembered youth as they played among the stratosphere's circuit mappings with wires and pulse modules for the boxes.

Boxes were different sizes and functions. She had one specially fabricated a fortnight ago to play the Jupiter lights on a disco ball in the sun. Precisely unkempt and destitute they pulsed at rhythms sometimes doublets sometimes triplets of each other and painted a cataclysmic fortune for the few keeping tabs as the doublets moved passed and doubled in time.

She wasn't inept; just tidy. Things got along ok in the goop situated nearest her an time ticked on like a like a train down familiar tracks. It stamped and rolled with another. Distant and connected by the box and its tendrils had her grasped tightly.

He wondered about her sometimes. The box echoed a familiar hold on her and he distasted the whole charade. It was, for him, necessary to necessitate interaction between the stratospheres they both occupied respectively. Time up and gave a fart and he diddled a masterpiece for her in the muck of it all. Grades were made for the spectacles and spectators echoed their sentiment on strong notes in the depths of a night.

She ached for him on the regular. The box kept them close in a sense and his masterpieces did for her a service in the night away from him. It projected the digital stills against another obelisk in the foreground. Fantastical images would transmit through the box to the monitor and the lot was categorized and alphabetized by a number of the rabble and they gained popularity in peculiar circles.

The days crept in like a stalker. With knife and ginny he was at the ready to snatch up unsuspecting doodlers in the muck of it all. The wires and pulse modules collected in a pool and doodlers lapped it up. It was the life giver of the solar systems collective.

He circled the pool in routines taught by a teacher of many things. The knife glistened and a shimmer could be seen in the distance. The glint blinded the travelers at the same time in a flash before a very precarious backdrop in the latter years of the second decade past 2000.

Boxes vibrated and pulse modules echoed familiar chatter in the routines between stations and they began beckoning each other again.

Jul 5, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

ＳＰＡＣＥＭＯＵＳＥ！ ＴＨＥ ＡＤＶＥＮＴＵＥＲ ＴＨＲＯＵＧＨ ＴＩＭＥ ＡＮＤ ＳＰＡＣＥ ＨＥ ＷＡＳＳＵＢＤＵＥＤ ＴＯ ＸＲＡＹＳ ＡＦＴＥＲ ＨＩＳ ＯＷＮＥＲＳ ＢＡＬＬＯＯＮ ＢＡＳＫＥＴ ＭＩＳＳＩＯＮ ＳＥＮＴ ＨＩＭ ＦＡＲ ＡＢＯＶＥ ＯＵＲ ＯＷＮ ＳＴＲＡＴＯＳＰＨＥＲＥ

Jul 21, 2018

sometimes

I scare myself. Just in the nights of sleeplessness and ad nauseam. No one to comfort the downtrodden fool in the kitchen with the knife in hand.

Slash. Another rip here, there and then there we're done. Not long now before the packs of wild game wash by and lap at the boards of our ship amongst the stars. They'll poke and prod at the things that grow in the box garden just over the ships bow.

Jul 22, 2018

It flickered and fawned

The bright lights just dimmed a bit in the dusky hours of a Monday. Time stamped on in familiar quartets and things materialized out of thin air. The night was waxy with a chance of rain and the materializations danced in a discotheque amongst the stars just beyond the gamma burst and fluxed in concentric circles. The circles collided with a multitude of other shapes amongst the air betwixt molecules and the spectacle oscillated in a peculiar way after the Iran nuclear deal debacle of 2018. Things continued on at noticeable interruptions in the media ad nauseam and trumpets echoed with the oboe over an exciting vibrato conducted by only Lord knows.

Jul 24, 2018

༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

The night was wet with the stuff. All hail the chief and make due with what you have at the ready. Man paws diddled at the keepsake of forgotten time and the hands of the clock bled in the night sky a horrid maroon and the ships captain became uneasy.

The bow of the ship held back the water. It had crept up over time. The docks just moved on regular basis to keep dry. All seemed quiet on fronts drawn in the sand with cracker jack boxes.

Aug 4, 2018

༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ HIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

The air stank of wet perfume and hand-me-down tribulations about a point fixed in space to the counter-wise orientation of a location deemed adequate for a man to grow and thrive. But motivation was lacking. Smooth starts don't pick up and handle themselves into a positive forward progression of politics within a paradigm of indifference to the effect of global climate change.

Aug 10, 2018

░▒▓█▇▅▂∩(･ω･)∩▂▅▇█▓▒░

Speakers blared on separate channels and a story formed within the reverberations.

Time took heed and the rabble continued on while he scratched and scrawled. The dirt was thin on his canvas and the ground was cold with dew. The picture began to form at a time a lotted by government subsidy and the tab was large.

His picture wasn't the main topic of our story. A young woman entered the room and she had an uneasy expression on her face. Somber would be the name had it not been such a cheery afternoon in the caves musk den. She gripped at he hip and fidgeted against the cool, dank air. The two made an odd couple and they occupied a rock formation long ago forgotten with moss and debris the man used to etch into the rock bed before him.

Tables turned and the up jump start of him scribbled the foreground and a picture of translucent lake formed up from the ground. Etched in the foreground was a picket fence warding off any livestock of a sleepy farm in the Midwest. Time ogled for days and the stamp came along in time. Readers were a gasp of the news blaring on multitudes of loudspeakers in the town just south.

Aug 14, 2018

Less sugar more water

Things made sense when time up and gave a dime. Doodling all day made the next different. Things didn't always stack up in the end when card counts go around the table every Tuesday.

A tender touch of misunderstanding mixed with alka seltzer washed away the feelings of desperation earlier in the day.

Aug 19, 2018

Temple city

Where the grass is green and temples build up to the sky for acres. Fences were built all along the watchtowers and armed gunman took posts at alpha, beta, and the like.

A turnstile up and formed and the matador took dockets from the rabble for times of good and times of bad in the lamplit hours of a dreary day for chat in the depths of a bunker south side of the westward expansion station at present.

Next time around things would be different but no one knew how the changes would roll out next nigh and no one gave a damn for three weeks and a cup of jobe.

Aug 21, 2018

ᕙᓄ(☉ਊ☉)ᓄᕗ

The kitchen was on fire and the study was in shambles. A destitute man sat in the corner and scribbled what he remembered from the day before. It was an attempt to correlate what he deemed truth with the reality that flickered on the afternoon broadcasts and the winter approach with a fervor.

Spacemouse arrived in the heat of a deadlocked binary code that didn't add up in the latest of calculations.

Aug 24, 2018

A furnace

For keeping warm. The embers bleed the fire for thousands as we inched toward a cataclysmic dipole in the ocean of the universe. Ships tried to divert course but the magnitude of the predicament made it all the more attractive. The ships spun about in an intricate map and the time bandits called for the end of calculation for the better part of a decade.

Mud packed soil lay in the land that kept the mass at temperature and molecular structure. It rotated and oscillated counter-wise in a corkscrew on the perpendicular rotation of a gamma burst eons past in the soup bowl of the universe.

Aug 26, 2018

(◕‿◕✿)

Mindfucks for windup dolls on shelf in the nursery. The porcelain was tattered and worn in spots on the dolls faces from constant tearing of innocence.

Too much inside baseball. Time for the brigands. The packs of dogs. The geese. Multitudes rocked on a sultry time warp about the eclipse of a suns rays. The mass of matter spun effortlessly about a gamma burst in the 4th quadrant of a solar system two eons past star date.

Sep 6, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

A new groove. The ships rocked in normal configurations about a dusk day. The rains had come and washed away the solace of a dreary dream about race car drivers.

She dreamt of outer space and the kaleidoscopes of planets in the muck of it all. Tracing the lines on her ceiling she often thought of the way things used to make sense in it all.

No one was spared. All heard the call. The beckoning. To be a box. To top the ruler scrawled in the distance of the past rock gods. The tempo was steady and told of a better time in commonplace with the decor of a single bed and lamplit keyboard. Licking his lips he waited in a line of contenders in a game of sorts. To top the tipper. To gasp at the spectacle of it all and try to make sense of it all at one time. Answers in the dark with yourself alone and tempered to topple a market. To blast the furnace too red hot and burn down the box that berated the mask of it all. The trumpet in the night that separated the night with a blast heard not in eons time.

A tribulation split the night and time up and took a docket for the remembering of a following bout. Card counters tallied and took heed of it all for the better part of a wanderlust composition of forgotten tunes and limericks. It was scrawled like a note to oneself about a dream once had in the night of turbulent and ghastly. The notes were electronic and sharp with tones resembling a better ether cut and the song just muddled a bit for show. It was better at varying speeds as the conductor wrapped it all together and said silencio for a nights sleep in the study with knife in hand and gleam in eyes not yet slept for a long times times 2 and the night eclipsed another tally on the abacus of time.

Sep 17, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つHIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

Time tramped on in the quiet destitute summer of 2018. Dates had come and passed through times of Bowsette related gibberish concerning the forward progression of a media giant and things got along okay. She whispered something awful into a box she had laying around in the muck of it all. Tributes piled up and the thing went about clockwork in the dreary times of a cult mass hysteria.

She silenced the gasp with a whisper that heard round the world would have dried up the Salton Sea. It echoed a time of remembrance of a simpler time when sticks and stones piled up on the West coast when all else had been had been used to generate memes. They kept the masses at calm and peaceful on the front of a Islamophobia whispered to a box operator's ear and it kept him company in a dastardly sketch of the like.

Skyscrapers appeared in the distance of a vast array of emptiness in the gasp of space allotted to the rabble on channels all over the sea of it all. A building of young daydreamers popped into existence over a broadcast of the sirens for sleep. They droned notes somber and chaste for the sake of entertainment and the boxes echoed a familiar ad nauseam in the night with no stalker at the ready with knife and nap-sack to up and swiftly deal with tribulations in the broadcast of happy go lucky limericks and notecards written to a better time of self contemplation. It stunk of wishful thinking that the orb on which we reside is asleep on its feet and dumbstruck to the tribulations of comeuppance ready for our unsuspecting guests to the gamma burst quadrant where we reside.

Sep 25, 2018

┬─┬ ︵ /(.□. \）

It turned out to be a drab day when the clock struck midnight on the kitchen floor of a vestibule apartment. Time dripped into a bowl in the moonlight and the kitchen was dirty from cooking a masterpiece. Chicken and dumplings for the masses and all hail to the chief as we swing and bob on the pendulum that rocks upon this precipice.

Channels trumpeted a new sex scandal and the masses chewed a gamey pit of despair. Everything added up to lies for flies as the heap of rotting flesh piled up.

Oct 1, 2018

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

It came like a sword. The beckoning. Cheaters. Dirty swindlers and the like. They ganged up on Tuesday's and the rabble chattered like donkeys in stable yard. Times went abreast of a current situation with free speech and burning the midnight oil on documents.

The night echoed familiar troubleshooting in the dark with nary a knob to nestle and get a solid tune.

Oct 11, 2018

GivePLZ ItsBoshyTime TakeNRG

The writing made sense in a jumble. A timepiece sit in the corner and counted the melting existence. It marked the beginning. There was no end in sight. It built up like a spire; for miles they flocked to its beckoning. Tinkering took time. It blasted a furnace below a dark outer layer of bark on a tree branch that jutted out of tree older than the time had started keeping track. The timepiece shimmered in cool light of a star gone past half life and spun effortlessly in the space betwixt molecules.

Oct 19, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

Came out of a necessity to decency. He was strong and willed a way with his keyboard and helmet in the night with no camping ground left brazen and downtrodden.

Echoing a familiar sentiment to that time and place the elucidation of his form drawn black in the moonlight on a cold December long forgotten and commonplace. His form took shape and captivated an audience long enough in the ad nauseam to elucidate a following of captivators strong willed and brazen in the art of wasting time, a very costly and rudimentary fundamental of the alchemy in which diamonds are made.

Oct 24, 2018

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つHIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

It felt better at night. Not to upset the squares. Just hints and tickles of intimate contact between two beings on the earth.

Tickles take time and time takes breathes away. In the humble beginnings a rapport developed in the late nights and dreary travelers diddled on ram drives in the muck of it all.

Nov 19, 2018

ᕙ[ ͒ ﹏ ͒ ]ᕗ

My name is saison. I am from the family of the East. For many a day I have sat and pondered the existence of things and studied "the way". But water leaves a pool before one's eyes in the path of the sun. She keeps a watchful eye on us but I suspect a power within her which does not allow water to persist perceptibly. What say you, teacher of tae-kwan-do, to a layman of science about the effervescence of my master's allegory; his teacher; his philosophy's foundation?

Nov 19, 2018

KonCha

She was a sweet young thing. The apple of the eye. The machinations in the night that oogled the masses. It was a vicious machine that built during the night on tired eyes. The mass media inclinations died out in regular hours and it got along okay in the sight of a master of trickery that boggled the mind late midnight and dreary.

Nov 24, 2018

●.◉

Never again in the daylight! Nary a noob could be the wiser. They whispered such sweet nothings. To the masses. A better tempo and topical ointment in the night. Such reveries were fore-boad-en in differing calamities of the power. Shambles of itself it demanded comeuppance for the incompetent doodling in the study. Why such an undeserving servitude of common decency in the world in which we live?

Dec 2, 2018

GivePLZ ItsBoshyTime TakeNRG

The night was rife with heebygeebees. It was a closet in Taiwan that upjumped and clamored in the dusky hours of a Sunday morning in Singapore. Warnings of impending doom arose like clockwork in the destitute study of ogling and awe-ing. The candle burnt deep at the stem of the candleholder and the time droned on like a bell. "Ding!"

Dec 9, 2018

GivePLZ ItsBoshyTime TakeNRG

It lasted longer sometimes. The coasts moved like pixies. Before your very eyes. Double-check in the afternoons and on weekends midnight and dreary to the eyes of the beholder.

A beckoning to please the mass while a miss in the bedroom alone and solemn.

Nary a chat could keep up at nights. The rules were makeshift and crude at times but things got along okay in the upstart about the blush of stars.

Dec 10, 2018

\(._. )/

Sometimes in the night like a flash the daring would make a move. But not to the wary. Toward something in the moonlight beyond the farmhouse. Glimmering and glinting like an obelisk.

Dirty campers were aghast of the composition of deadly affairs in the night hours before a comeuppance.

Dec 19, 2018

ez forboden

To all the masses comes time and time licks like a lollipop to the creamy desired center upon the mass we coincide in next to gamma burst and solar lightning a thunder never head for a decade long and time up and gives a fart on clocks last Tuesday.

Dec 19, 2018

Nico Suave Branch

I dreamt of you last night, my friend; my companion. We were helpless against the onslaught outside from the swarms upon us. I awoke in a dream inside my dream; shrouded by the covers of my bed like a hot bean in cold taffy. The web pulled me down by my head and face but I felt your familiar touch as my feet found the ground next to our bed. I saw myself, my face as a hole-y and tattered cloth about my face. My limbs weak and too feeble to carry me from the bed to the door. Inside my dream I awoke again and repeated my perilous scramble to unlatch the door and face our would be attackers but the taffy became lead and I dove from the bed to the stoop where you were standing guard, as you always do, my truest friend. I held you when I found you. I couldn't believe it was you. You had been gone so long form me! I couldn't believe you were still there. Even after all the times I abandoned you! For shame? Was I shamed that I let the fear take hold so long and so steadfast? What had you done to deserve such a banishment from me? Never again I say now from the beast that rises inside me! Never again will I leave your side old friend, we have so much to see! To do! To smell! To feel! I am not afraid. We shall find your brothers, friend. The wolves, your kin. We shall find your true brothers together. We will search high on mountain. We will cross streams and moats. Together for the rest of our lives. You will be free in my heart for all days. We will bask in the sun and feel the cold winds together, brother. I must see you as soon as my feeble leg can carry me.

Nicodemus Suave' Branch; he died alone. He will be missed.

Dec 19, 2018

\(._. )/

A new speaker appeared from thin air. Modules were run and notes progressed in logical fashion within allotted time intervals. Music.

A tinkering and mindless drone tickled the plastic keys of dreary typewriter upon the obelisk occupying a quadrant in a rolodex of namesakes and treasure troves of toys and trinkets upon the table in a foray.

Dec 30, 2018

ᕙ[ ͒ ﹏ ͒ ]ᕗ

The bedroom was in shambles. The drawers were all pulled out of the dresser and the hamper was overflowing. Little was left to the imagination as the sun moved across the sky in this wanton world we work within.

Jan 5, 2019

Tool: Third Eye

"See I think drugs have done some good things for us; I really do. And if you don't believe drugs have done good things for us, do me a favor; go home tonight and take all your albums and all tapes and all your cds and burn 'em. Cause you know what, the musicians all that great music thats enhanced your life throughout the years.... r-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-al fuckin high on drugs."

"Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is nearly energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we're the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather."

"It's not a war on drugs, it's a war on personal freedom is what it is. And try and keep that in mind all times; thank you."

Bill Hicks, (December 16, 1961 – February 26, 1994)

Free eno-ugh, that face again And it's bright, and blue, and shimmerin' Grin-nin wide and comforting me with it's three fold and wild eyes

On my back and tumblin' Down that hole and back again Risin' up and wipin' the webs and dew from my withered eye

In... Out... In.... Out....

A child's rhyme stuck in my head It said that life is but a dream I've spent so many years in question To find I've known this all along

So good to see you I've missed you so much So glad it's over I've missed you so much Came out to watch you play Why are you runnin' away? Came out to watch you play Why are you runnin'?

Shrouding all the ground around me Is this holy crow above me Black as holes within a memory Blue as our new second sun I stick my hand into his shadow Pull the pieces from the sand I try attempt to re-assemble Suggest who I might of been I do not recognize the vessel But the eyes seem so familiar Like phosphorescent desert buttons Singing and old familiar song

So good to see you I missed you so much So glad it's over I missed you so much

Came out to watch you play Why are you runnin' away?

Came out to watch you play Why are you runnin' away?

Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye

So good to see you once again I thought that you were hiding You thought that I had run away Chasing the tail of dogma

I opened my eye I opened my eye I opened my eye I opened my eye and there we were.

I opened my eye I opened my eye I opened my eye I opened my eye and there we were.

So good to see you once again I thought that you were hiding from me You thought that I had run away Chasing the trail of smoke and reason

Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye Prying open my third eye

Jan 5, 2019

(•_•) ( •_•)>⌐■-■ (⌐■_■)

In a dead site. Things don’t add up in the end. Tabbletoppers took head of the lay of the land and guessed at the spirit of the 70s. Adblock got you note-locked and you try to gain up toward something that meant something to a very few telltale keepsakers in the continuum. What to write about and who to name. They know it so well. It’s hard to make a drum beat loud enough on speakers where any sense of learned behavior mechanics with flow statistics of VOX speakers. They play the ether so well. And ditto pedals and distortion pedals.

Jan 8, 2019

●.◉

It took hold sometimes in the night with those much better for the wares and little cares for the real world. Time was on clocks but no one knew where they kept the damn things. It made sense when everyone got along without a big hoopla. Kept none the wiser. A nary here, a knob at this, and along now to allegory kept for safe keeping.

December on and left us and another year ticked on the docket and we got along to another day gone with none the wiser of a young whippersnapper's one call to the salty void.

Jan 10, 2019

Friendzone

Gobbledygook beget sensible catalog-able timepieces for a better speech keeper in the mess of it all. Freedom of the fault gave another notch on a belt of numb and worn keys that shone in the moonlight for another day at the laffy taffy machine of sticky taffy. He typed to click the monitors on in a daily routine left about on a whim of keepsakes and memories too dark to fathom and gin rot his bleeding mind against the innards of a skull not left too beaten in the last tussle with the army guards.

Jan 16, 2019

ʕง •`ᴥ´•ʔっ)'-゜)

The titans came in. Touted their wares and devil may care as the rabble lapped it up. A knife and ginny in his keepsake the stalker darted through the night and clipped the little nobs that grew in the garden kept for the home.

Jan 20, 2019

\(._. )/

It was a cold January. The wind whipped the warmth right out of your fingertips and the vestibule apartment was alone and disheveled. The rotgut of heartbreak panging every beat of the heart fluxing life to an old body of papier mache' and candy corn worked out of the gumdrop mine for safe keeping. Little one, now we carry the trinkets of a sailor in the galaxies she made up in her gown of yellow and box of gold.

Feb 1, 2019

●.◉

He dreamt of it. The final reset. A trinket he carried in his pocket for sunny days so as to dash any hope of arrant play. He knew he was a lame duck and he felt smug in knowing better than the rest. It was too cataclysmic not to shake the foundation of a home. The batons were out to ward off any suitors and he kept a close watch on the study for nightly constitutionals with the brainchild. His machinations in the night didn't coalesce like others do. In the night his study is with the witches brew.

Feb 1, 2019

Condemnations

Filled the world and books were written on the mis-steps. A teller was heard whispering sweet nothings into a desk clerks earpiece and pandemonium ensued. The pipers were giddy with the warp and they licked their fingertips as a wave of melancholy washed over his face in the night.

Feb 6, 2019

\(._. )/

The night was muddled with a chance of rain

We gave up on time and the pain

She grasped at the air into a window pane

Nothing, no nothing could be the same

Time and time again they played the game

And this is how the evangelicals keep the same name

Electricity jolted the wire and a brigand up and gave a wane

Rapping and prepared to gasp at the wonderment arcane

Feb 24, 2019

ʕง •`ᴥ´•ʔっ)'-゜)

Something just snapped. A rig toppled in the background of a very passionate time in the eons. People got right up in your face and didn't back down for a breath of air and they kept time in the night. Facades waxed and waned as the night air wicked with something too sweet to fathom. It tasted of success. It tasted of the emperor. It tasted as though we had forgotten to breathe another sigh of relief at the commonplace of nothing to do about the weather.

Mar 1, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

He glistened in the night. Like a mod god with shield and sword. He spoke of a better time of discotheque and ambient sounds. The glamour of it all. His spectacle trumpeted through the masked marauders and the stadium echoed his song.

Mar 1, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つMOD YOUR KIDS MOD YOUR WIFE

He lost himself in the sauce. It filled him with a sense of purpose in a dwindling cataclysm among the stars. It echoed of a time forgotten with blowup dolls and fast cars. The rhyme and reason made him weak at the knees and it made for a soup that the beggars could lap up double time.

Somewhere along the way we lost ourselves in the reverie and the stars shined on a destitute kitchen foray between the apartment's load bearing columns. The scene wasn't something you would run and go tell on the mountain but it clamored for more than just a drive-by. We were sitting at the edge of our seats but the show had just begun.

Shiver me timbers and gobbledygook looked at each other in the limelight of a regal show about the neighbors. They got along okay but there were skeletons in the closets. It wasn't that they clamored for attention; no, they just were too shocking to let loose during a cheery game of scrabble. The knife and ginny of the shadowy figure left more to the imagination and someone called foul. He swooped in and gave the scene away in the kerfuffle. Scoundrels were fodder for the growing mass of spectators that were amassing in the evening limelight. We stood with them and tried to grasp the meaning as if it had some sort of type cast for the lot. It was a meaningless end to the show's gallant affair of being so damned breathtaking.

Shockingly, the rascals at the edge of the knife had feelings. They dared to be brazen in their rights as human beings and the show was nothing but a dart in their sides. It pumped into their blood something less noxious than a strong cup of jobe with sugar and honey but it got the heart pumping to a beat that was peculiar for them to feel. It rationed the blood to the parts and participles in a flash of vigor and time. To be so alive frightened the reprobates and they whined like hyena on the serengeti in the midst of a chase that got them hot and bothered. The knife cut deep and blood spurt from their throats like a waterfall just released from a dam. It shot like a arrow from their mouths and the pools could have drowned a small calf. They stumbled and fumbled about for a while and the stalker took time to nurse his dying thirst for the trophies he had so carefully stalked the nights before. For him, the task was a docket he had filled quite willingly. Others had lined up for miles just to taste the gasp of defeat in their eyes when the tally had rung true. He had won a raffle of sorts to become the last man the tarts would lay eyes on.

Their bodies lay out on the ground lifeless and downtrodden but a life could still be seen in each of an eye left unclosed for fear the dark would take them now. Blood had collected in the creases of their arms and legs and the stalker ready his ginny to snatch them up and take them away from their rest. He paused a minute more to filter the feelings of melancholy and solace into a more digestible disdain for their lack of clout in the chase. They were the game and he the hunter. Why to them give heed of a heart that held close sweet Regina and long walks with her companion Nico? To die was to have lived a life less than lukewarm in a bowl of tepid soup. The chalk and residue was like a blanket he kept warm with. To the cauldron so these rapscallions taste a better time with garlic and thyme.

He had his ginny full and his heart on a wire until the night had finished. Two legs flayed and one part salt. Three halves spilt and five parts water. Chives and garlic for flavor, thyme and honey for the bitter. One pot sits for two hours.

Apr 27, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

The game was afoot. Counter-fire and backup positions were offered as penance. Players lost their minds and the time just kept on ticking by. Grenades and Molotov cocktails lit up the sky but no one just kept quiet anymore. It was greater than them all but no better than a pack of cigarettes. The char around the edges made it crispy but the center was still cold. The altar was amiss and everyone was in shambles about the way it failed to commemorate the evening. It was a misstep and the higher ups knew it. They tried to distract attention with commercials and rebranding of old goods but no one was fooled. It was complete anarchy.

Apr 27, 2019

\('-')/

It crept in like a daunting daredevil inside the iridescent coffin, demented and lost over the cargo bay’s port. The winds kicked up something wicked and the sea tossed the coffin overboard and we slept for a fortnight. Weathered in the weary we slept like a baby. Tussled and joss-led awake again. Awoken to the tossing around like a hot ball of lead in taffy to cool the lost forgone air betwixt the molecules amongst the stars. Yonder years never knew the sleep amongst the stars in the study. It crept over like a cover of loneliness in the night with others in the tabby coat knocker betwixt the molecules amongst the cluster of gamma bursts in the night along side sweet Marissa, dank and destitute along the stars between Tardigan space and left alone with two.

May 4, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Under kempt they joss-led into the void amongst the stars and the lights echoed a familiar discotech around the lake between the two spires that reign up across the land in familiar line formation around the galaxy for three parsecs.

May 4, 2019

\('-')/

The time ticked by and by for what seemed like eons as the rock formation eclipsed the moon and sun in forward progression amongst the stars. The moon rested against the space betwixt the molecules and the sun gasped at the depth of a quasar.

It pumped through him like the ether. Drained and malnourished it filled him like a bottle. To the top and stopped with a cork to keep the vapors contained. She was jealous of his sneak and she wished for some for herself. To feed the dying embers of a flame left too destitute on a cold night. The stalker walked like a butler for the two and his knife shined in the night. Glinting a hope of long lost game in the tussle of things. It crept in the night as a brigand once do and they got lost, the three of them, in embers of a cold snap.

Night fed into day and the sun warped water away from the weary trio. He kept full of the stuff as not to waste it on a lovely day. To keep it for the calling of arms in the next nights for sleep to carry way to the group as they drifted along a sea of gummy drop memories.

A gang of nary a foul fodder swung in across the sky and trumped our trio a bet on pass of land and charter to build a fine lot for the cattle and farm stock to graze and feed for a winters feast of hay and flower.

Spilled on feet in jest the frolic left imagination to the beholder and the time just eked by for a fortnight on nigh and we crept toward a participle in space between the best and the worst of it in a muck that crept through canals like catacombs in the midst of morning and time just pooled in a droplet container in the outer edges of a black hole just past the interdimensional goup as we crept like babies; coddled to sleep for nights of fright and drought without the snout of a game walrus with a mustache to boot.

May 14, 2019

░▒▓█▇▅▂∩(·ω·)∩▂▅▇█▓▒░

It's hard to feel sometimes. Joy had left his corner apartment. The games didn't add up to life of leagues of seas shredded over the world. He had a sense of loneliness in the pit of his stomach that only got fed by the drugs and meetings with dream catchers. The pit swallowed up the daily routine of prayer circles and witchcraft. All the lonely people piled up at the turnstile and the dusk of day was stacked in the corner.

May 15, 2019

VoHiYo

Well hello there, she said with a stammer. He bowed and she did the same. Coffee was had by all and pixies provided the sugar. It was laced with something awfully strong and the bees made honey sweeter.

Waiting is the hardest part. It takes time and time in a commodity best spent in the throws of ecstasy. Hard days ahead. Trotting with heavy feet and a head full of psychoactive drugs. The days get easier with time but then it's a dripping faucet of sustenance. It feeds the life only help in times of the throws. A cruel game we play with our lives. Cursing the day. Cherishing the night and the wee hours of freedom from the prison of time.

May 16, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

He darted into the foreground and dance a jig of the stars. Starry eyed and gobsmacked, the crowd oogled and danced like sprites for the show. It was a galant affair too bright for one to look at without proper sunglasses. It rose and set like the sun amongst a backdrop of a precarious time in the cosmos.

Idiots barked into boxes at a tea party where the drinks were served cold and bitter. The lust for understanding in the whirl of it all became a game of sorts and bettors lined up far and wide to gamble their winnings. It seemed to be a theatre that distracted the masses long enough for the clock to strike the 11th hour on the 64th day of turmoil. The stalkers would be out again; hunting for nodding doodlers in the day encampments and white coat armies.

Nothing seemed contrary to the evangelical rants about tampons and contraception along with the good tidings of maniacal tyrants of prophecy. The suburbs rocked along a familiar tune of ad nausea to drown out the rejects and shanty operators. Whore houses popped up on the stratosphere of a interconnected web of boxes that hiccuped in the wee hours of the night.

Watching parties cropped up overnight and crowds of kids could be heard cheering and ranting on there own without intervention. Mods and bullies set up shop to rake in the tidings and keep the show on a digestible tempo. The metronome clicked like a bird in a mating dance for a better mate with buxom wares and little cares. The fiasco was happy and cool for the cost cutters to take their cut and divvy up the profit amongst the schleppers. They breathed black smoke to keep abreast of the situation erupting in the Middle East with little a captain at the helm. They coughed and sputtered between bets and eating with destitute looks on their faces. The house always won but no one kept tabs on anything but their own dwindling returns. It washed over a face of a malcontent visualizing a moonlit canoe ride down a stream serene and tranquil.

May 23, 2019

porn is porn

He dreamt of better time of rabble-rousing and upkeep of a temperament more aligned with the tax of better majors. Button the ends like a keepsake in the night. The boxes and bosses tower over the masses.

Time up-kept around the hour of nightly composition and everyone got all up in jumbles. Stories of non consensual consent and the like keep a doodler up at night with the candle above half a wicks end. It snatched like a keeper in the night; tending the goal over the line in weekend match.

May 27, 2019

The box...

Is empty on the table and the curtains are amiss. Candlelight lit the apartment in a dancing fashion; with shadows jumping around the walls. A pen and a pad jotted the nightly incantations and we got along like pixies amongst the stars and blackness of it all.

The light painted a precarious picture on the night with brainchild and machinations in the twilight. Nothing added up to nothing in the end. A rolodex of new management to a twilight generation. Of knobs and bookends. Of carriers and workers alongside a giant with whiskers growing along the face held too close the sun as it eclipsed the black star in the center of our galaxy. Paper clips jostled loose the nectar of summer's glee and jumpstart of gumption better for the wars and cataclysms of next year's shadow fall.

Jun 5, 2019

┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)

The twins were at it again. Doodling in the study and having none the wiser they were drawing a dire picture in the tumultuous times of the day. Gobsmacked and golden the gliding gesture of gangs got grumpy.

Jun 10, 2019

Time capsule

For fortitude. To cut the ether in half and subdue under the limelight. A better for the wise tactic with fortitude and gumption. A beacon of a light too bright to contain in speaking terms.

The stalker, restless in the night, fumbled for his knife and ready the ginny sack for a sack of potatoes. He skinned them and boiled them for a midnight snack with beef tenderloin from the crops of young doodlers. The stew was thick with the blood of the fallen and the bread mopped up the scraps.

Jun 13, 2019

ez forboden

To talk in the night. Whispers shiver me timbers and live streams own the market for hard up campers. Sweet nothings make better fodder for the other mother, sister, daughter.

Brothers camp and keep limelight by the study. Markings and pictures strewn the campsites and writers kept more in the stratosphere of picture boxes and module configurations.

He knew he had missed something. A kerfuffle in back alley for better stance in a game of chance. Once forgetting all but true in the rum flavored concoction he sipped on in oh so ordinary fashion.

Jun 14, 2019

SqShy

Dreams crept over him like wisps of smoke and he cough and chortled on some of the stuff. If he darted out into the world it was only to come with timely an errand around town.

It was another time and place when we rocked upon the precipice that got along in star formations amongst the cosmos.

Jun 15, 2019

Given to time

And the clock struck another doodler in the night up scared to do anything about it. The time oozed through a small hole in the center of our galaxy.

Jun 16, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

He forgot to remember the feeling of weightlessness between landlocked slumbers and dreams for a remembering. Time crept like a stalker with a knife and ginny sack. Wandering the landscape looking for doodlers and the like in the sea of it all. The universe. The boxes and fixes.

Jun 17, 2019

┌( ಠ‿ಠ)┘

It was a game we were always playing. Knickknacks and gum drops a plenty. The stew was ready and gangs were lapping the stuff up. Turnstiles and pay stations cropped up like crop circles.

Jun 18, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

Internet dripped from the ceiling again. It bled into the crack of a demented skull in the study with Mario. Twitch took over all formidable archetypes and the drugs flowed like water. Copypasta? Least of our worries. The war hawks and gun toters rabbled up a game start on fields'o'plenty.

Jun 21, 2019

(ノ ゜Д゜)ノ ︵ ┻━┻

Just writings scrawled on the floor. To keep time in the dastardly feint up into the skies. There, the sun, a star with gamma bursts every some odd 100 year cyclical inclinations. The bursts heard round these parts to spontaneously disassemble any of the electronics and information factories.

Jun 22, 2019

(⊙.☉)7

The gang up and drank the stuff. Like rations for a war they lost count unless divided by a doctor and counted to three before imbibing. The spirit was the same as the last hour and they carried on a wayward Thursday amongst the stars. Gooey eyed and languished the marauders meandered up mountain and stream walkway.

Always a warm liquid, time ran over the turnstile of a machine to extract the energy from water. It was the lifeblood of the collective hum heard in the streets and concert halls. Water wheels and troughs of the time rerouted it in concentric avenues around the planet that eeked effortlessly amongst the gamma bursts and white noise in the goop of space around a fallen star. The sliver of cosmos was held together by the immense force of the universe against the collective ohm of a galaxy long lost in the muck of it all. We find ourselves presently in somber composition and the upstart for revolting.

Jun 27, 2019

●.◉

They never let on there was a game afoot but they played like seasoned veterans. Chirping and groping with ambled fingers. Gnawing at a bone in temperament to the situation growing in the garden. The bushes were overgrowing their space and weeds had begun to crop up that must be pulled. They paw and gripe so merry to the lasses of their day and composition but I fear the stare in them that can take a man to ecstasy and back around for another trip. One foot in front of the other they walked a thin line around town for the news trumpeters and radio station affair. No more at the think tank and alive with yourself for a number's day. Drip drop and merry time to all and to all a goodnight.

Jun 27, 2019

(⊙.☉)7

He was stuck in a Maynard spiral with halfway worth of the stuff. Nuff to topple a tower tick of the hour past a thoroughfare to walk with sweet Maria. Whisper sweet nothings on the only piano in the place to walk a beat down merry street. A daily moron creep. Up too much from sleep. One more merry beat. To rap to when the mood strikes you. Nary another listens and no one keeps tabs on a bar that deludes the stuff like alkaseltzer. One pump. One chump. All that keeps us afloat in present composition of think tank goop. Dark one and his knife and ginny up round about for to take us to our maker. Nary and knob where seems fitting and round yourself to a cheery disposition for pictures and expose' of the chemical stuff. Gas mask and bulletproof vest branded for fear of an uprising in present company; knife and ginny for the moles and rats for toting to gumption machine for the oogling of wary campers and travelers of our situation.

Jun 29, 2019

OSFrog

Can't blame a kid for playing games. Games are afoot and games will be had. Don't feel so bad. There's a good lad. Chin up and don't stammer. Watch out for the hammer or sword of a mod so mighty. Up and clamor for a little tidy. And brush your hair and shave your beard. You aren't so calm and cleared. Mac daddy asleep on his feet. Windows and walls up into the street. Asleep for remembering a time for us to grasp at something less than ordinary and timely in present disposition.

Jun 30, 2019

●.◉

Under roof so sound he gargled the air with anticipation. Dreaming again. Sleep creeping in and dusting his eyelids with the heavy lead of sleep. Floating down the stream of consciousness and memories of the dead stop print of life.

Jul 1, 2019

¯\(°_o)/¯

A reset button of gold and jewels. The boxes echoed a familiar song of discotech and 8-ball venues. Watch parties cropped up like wildfire and the streamers pitched their wares for devil may care. It got along okay on a Tuesday.

Jul 2, 2019

SqShy

Nodding off to sleep in circlets he dosed at his post for an instant. Gamma rays blasted his eyelids and the muck suffered a drunkenly bout. Gobbledygook dreams rays built towers in the foreground. Falling off the wagon our merry few wept for rays of sunlight to drown out the dark.

Jul 4, 2019

(⊙.☉)7

Beggars beware; this devil carries Mastercard. The turnstiles massaged the goop of people past a memory of duller times. Times when they didn't up and snatch you from slumber to work of plenty in dime stores between the stars. Glasses of gold clinked and we sipped for days on the blood of gods.

The tributaries led to seas choppy with the stuff. An orb's worth to fancy the day away. Drinking just numbs the pain of emptiness and regret in the gut to large to write off.

Jul 8, 2019

FeelsGoodMan

And for the life of him he couldn't remember what good building did in the mess of it all. The tussle. The muscle. The betterment for betterment sake. It had a calling. A bold stand in the wind of things. It got along okay. Mind numbing dumbfounding fondling in the night. A nightly fright. It's alright. To give a damn.

The thing should werk. It should beckon the stars to embolden a sense of decency in the little things.

Jul 8, 2019

༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

It ticked in the distance. It towered over mountains. The clock of moon struck. Down in the muck, pa without his truck and we rambled around a discoteca around a glob of solder in the inner workings of a clock with planets spinning around a point in space caddywhompus to the position of boxes.

Millions of them. Jiving and clicking to the tones of the accordion that bellowed a old familiar tune and they rocked like babies. In the air. Without a care. Last week's stare. The stairs were more for dares. Who cares?

Jul 12, 2019

¯\(°_o)/¯

Nothing but nodding heads. Dreadful and agast at the turntable's sweet rhythms in the night. The discoteca floor was awash with sparkling lights and a laser show for a projector. The crowd undulated and the cool, crisp air wicked away the heat of the church goers lamp.

Jul 17, 2019

┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

The boxes mixed and matched the goop into tangible archetypes and the songs gave a long last whisper to the temperament of markets into an upstart of fiscal conservatives amongst the last starburst here near a mile. Can we place archetypes of our own? Is this free country? Is the man on me in this place? Have we got temperament of radical change in the present company of repertoire in the scientific community that leaves one to question their upbringing and privilege.

Sleep nodded a head of alka seltzer and psychoactive drugs a plenty for the nights and nights and nights and nights in this place. It took time to rhyme in a tempo appropriate for present company and the thing stunk of wishful thinking. It dripped coolant for the fires abreast the crescendo we find ourselves in. The winds wicked away a sense of awe. Things were just so. No one found solace. Everything wicked away in this place. It lay on the table. Danced before us in a spectacle then silencio. Around in plate used to hold the coolant the picture was aghast with wonderment to the present company of present company. What were their archetypes? Where were their men? So beaten and fallen to the weight of our shoulders we carried ourself to the box and the fix and the way you shoulder your hair in the midnight air; I would sure dare to care.

Sometimes the stars aligned and chat just did it's little dance for everyone. It told a tale of wishful thinking. Of the way it should be. The way it is done. The time it timed and time went abreast of itself into a jump discontinuity that couldn't be ignored made sense to a very few.

Jul 23, 2019

\('-')/

Lockpicks got you in. They held all the valuables there. A treasure trove. We oogled and played nice. They chatter like hyena on the serengeti and we hunt with spears made from real life dreams. Up and snatched by a mad mathematicians gaze and shuffled into a theorem of sorts. The book. The temple. The rubies. The chambermaids. The lost sense of loneliness inside a think tank overgrown in the steeples.

Jul 25, 2019

░▒▓█▇▅▂∩(·ω·)∩▂▅▇█▓▒░

The safe was open. Rolls of quarters lay on the floor and spill out in a splash. Doodlers were lining their pockets with the stuff. Ammo for the night. Gunfights in the streets and limelight to keep watch.

Jul 26, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

A fire burned a little glow. It jumped and squatted shadows in the cave dwelling of a camper in the throws of a cultural revolution. The air was wet with a sense of longing. Long ago the cavern had house a family of rats. Their brains were chemically altered through a space experiment NASA had cooked up for extraterrestrial life. They stood on two legs and ate at dawn.

Things got along okay and the writers stood up to brush off any cobwebs that had formed during the fortnights dwindling in the midnight hour upon a day so ordinary.

Jul 31, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つHIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

I've gathered you all together today to discuss the incessant whispering of sweet nothings into the ears of young doodlers and I have to say, it is quite a damper on the night of incandescent lights and hoopla around the fire.

To talk of sweet ginger insertions and gobbling up the cream is strictly forboden in all walks of life. Never steep of your inclinations to the contrary so as to give a better lay of your plight.

Aug 8, 2019

●.◉

Squishy and lumpy,

tendriled and bumpy;

these are the lay of the land.

Sweet and hot,

not a thot;

These are the claims of the lamb.

Aug 12, 2019

t-h-e-y-i-e-l-d-f-r-o-m-f-i-e-l-d-s-a-p-p-e-a-l-e-d-o-n-c-e-u-n-s-e-a-l-e-d-b-y-t-h-e-q-u-i-c-k-h-e-e-l-e-d

Game is afoot. Play is by the seat of your or someone you know pants. Gobbledygook makes for strange company in the nights of melancholy mood about a global giant of filth growing every minute.

The game is costly of time and strength of will. You must will your opponent to sleep with sweet nothings. Doodlers like lullabies. Keep limelight by the lamp of your box. Whisper the nothings like candy for the rabble. It keeps spirits in the nights of melancholy mood about a global giant of filth growing every minute.

Inject nectar like a devil may care anarchists in the night with a spray can. Leave no trace of sweet nectar of the rabble. It only brings you trouble in the night a wicks end in the nights of melancholy mood about a global giant of filth growing every minute.

Aug 12, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つdartmouth

It timed another day in the goop of things. The walls were being fortified with clay and mud in the draws of a giant figure darting from land to sea to make the stuff. He muddled the water and clay in a pot made from rot of a wooden pot the giant got made for the occasion.

Pixies danced in the sky away from the spectacle and the dusted the air with sweet hallucinogenic tear drops for the frogs and spiders to weave web and hop around in. The air was packed with the stuff and a boy danced under its glow.

Aug 15, 2019

\('-')/

He said no

She said yes

It was a bit

Like a game of chess

Yes and no

Scratch and blow

The tributes piled up

There wasn't two girls

Just one cup

She didn't act willingly

The scarf hung diligently

Just off her hip

Just one sip

And the night was called ado

Aug 23, 2019

༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ HIT TO DEATH IN THE FUTURE HEAD

The room was caddywhompus. More and more the time began to pile up into mountains and the sleep came like a flood. First drips and drops then muffin tops.

Never alone, the camper made makeshift knobs and narys for the doodlers in the night. It was for them to keep their way in the mess of world we live in with present company.

A great stalker carried around in the night with the campers and doodlers and boxes and fixes with a knife and ginny sack. He hunted the doodlers and the campers rested easy thinking they were without gripe.

The stalker didn't know if he was satiated by the doodlers or whether he actually fancied the campers enough to let them sleep in the nearby cocoon of wires and noise modules he had collected for the neon lights show.

The show was an incandescent light show with shadow puppets and electronic noise to drown out the sorrows of little pixies that grew in the pasture above a large mountain of filth.

Aug 25, 2019

\(._. )/

Toppers tipped titilators. It blinked in the dead night air. Cold wicked away the warmth of the candlelight. The flicker lit an odd time in the midnight muck. Channels broadcast candy for the schleppers and doodlers. Mountains grew in the distance existing of tin cans and bottles. The fires burned in the furnaces of families in the throws of revolting at the site of time honored knickknacks. The moon hung like an orb and the stars lit the stage.

Aug 27, 2019

(；一_一)

finally read the whole thing. geez its a mouthful. all I know is gas for vehicles in excel files dating back to past waste streams of a municipality. I'm a number cruncher. I love excel. Running figures next to each other and devising algorithms for their solutions is time consuming in excel but if you put the work in you can create models for forecasting future gains or losses in petrol use, methane gas emission, employee commute figures, CO2 from methane burning and electricity output. It's fun to do in excel. It gives you a real sense of purpose in the writing of whats happening in the world today. Nobody talks about emissions as something we should have to pay a tax on or trade in a market. We are all oogling at the the thot parade and the niceguy routine. Waiting for another to slip up and dodge the real question. What do we do to fix the energy woes of the coming century. It is our destiny. To write the anals of regulations on corporations that have been sucking the lifeblood of the planet and the economy. Cap and trade could be used to help the nuclear energy sector get its feet on solid ground with it being carbon neutral. Trade for responsibility of emissions nuclear gets funding for its projects given it needs a lot of upfront capital.

Sep 1, 2019

SqShy

Oh the games to be had! We stumble over each other in the dead of night and keep a watchful eye on the time. It ticks like a lick and slick with a wicks end. Never emboldened enough to walk upright like a man but crawling around like a baby to save energy. Under the weight differential time bends to a creep that can be felt in the bones. A stress that can be measured. Dials and knobs are kempt to pour and modulate the ether. Time. It never stops. Never will. Always ticking and ambling through the corridor with sweet Mary and Ashley and Sam. The days tally and the light falls and recoils around a sphere not yet past star date in the game of chance we call existence.

Sep 1, 2019

(°ロ°)

Never asleep at his post the fidgeter waxed and waned into the the midnight air. Devil may care. Twenty foot stare. The cool dank air spake writhings for comeuppance.

You stare into the void and it stares back. Chattering and clicking like a gum ball machine. No more dares. Twenty foot stares. Evening glare off the moon and stars just so.

Writing made for weird ones. The stories piled up. Things made sense to the stalker but most just ambled for a game of sorts. Time was taken and sleep was washed like a bath to cleanse the cogs and moving parts.

Oil splashed in the tussle. Muscle made you bet on things in a lottery of the stars. We sang a song about the time it made sense to a very few.

Sep 9, 2019

(◕‿◕✿)

He werked like a top. Spinning and dancing like a mouse with cheese. It was Swiss and it stank of tinsel and candy. The chump gulped it down and then went back to stacking and mending a conveyor belt churning out salt. The schleppers ran it in on trucks and forklifts and it kept on coming. The salt was a result of of the salt in our words. It was tart and sour and when imbibed by the doodlers but they had developed a taste for the stuff in time's dance with the stars.

The soup of our tale resembled chicken noodle. Soothing to the soul. A Gatsby. It told of the languid marauders that kept time on the cooking and divvying. Underneath it all the stars hung just so and elicited a giddy yelp from the mouse that kept the small, dank apartment coursing with life blood fluxing and whipping around the incandescent trail of lights from comets and asteroids. The sun burped and a flash hit the flux field of existence just beyond a quasar and someone sipped there soup and choked on the the broth.

Sep 10, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

In between playing he did a do. It was made of goo. It crept fro and to. Never the wiser mods stacked maps of cannon fodder in the basement of a shack in New Delhi.

Sep 10, 2019

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

People just existed. Things were built and scrapped in the nights of lonely disposition and a stupor of sleeplessness. Pictures plastered the sky and clickers hummed to switch on looping modules of the cream and the sugar rolled in like daylight. It cascaded across rooms and piled into dusty points in the air.

A doctor counted tables and arranged a group to test daily regiments of happy times and the air made an array of breathtaking gumption into the nights of game hype. Knickknacks and allegory filled the think tank's breast. It sailed on seas choppy with the stuff and we drank nectar of the god's to see a light flickering in the hallway.

Time kept running as the travelers ran a mile by meandering amongst flowers in a field of amber grain and mice and jackalope grazing nuts and foraging for the ages.

Sep 13, 2019

Paper cutterz

Hit the floor and neutralize. Open your ears and eyes. Do you even realize? We are the gods now.

Bleed money and rev your muscle. We're in for a lengthy tussle. The clock is riding thin.

Up in arms. Lucky charms. The shit is tight.

Sep 15, 2019

\('-')/

The tributaries filled with water wet with the breath of it all. It trickled and pooled in the forest and tress grew with a sense of awe that beckoned animals to their shade. In the fodder of leaves and grass small rocks scattered the graph and insects crawled all about the masses. Devils grew in the crevices and ate unsuspecting doodlers in the night with nary a mod the wiser.

Sep 17, 2019

●.◉

Damsels in distress and curtains for the foray. This creep really lets it all hang out. Under the sheets we keep sleet and candy. The ice tickles the wares and candy makes for a better hullabaloo afterward to catch up on the daily shadow knights and daily counterfeits. Nobody makes for merry chocolate dreams in the shallow pool of flux that whips around the makers and dancers in the plight.

No more was he a fawn but a buck with antlers. Moseying along the grass dunes and sand pockets chomping on pine cones and nuts. Meandering with a glimpse of a shimmer in his eye with a disposition of disgust and thoughtfulness. No more at the rest he longed to run in the hunt with a cougar hungry with lust to snap the little one’s neck and end all the hurt and pain.

Gallons of time slushed by a turnstile built to measure the flux and wind a string around a pea. The machine wound like a spiral helix and jutted out at the top and bottom.

Sep 19, 2019

┬─┬ ︵ /(.□. \）

He wished for death on the regs. Times up and started without much of a hoopla anymore. The color had drained out of the flowers on the kitchen table of life. Times we abreast of current capitulation. The dog was beaten and they were still taking turns on it. Such carnage. Such disregard for the pup's say in the game of things. It was dark on a Wednesday.

Oct 2, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

The knight dusted off the study and went to werk. Stacking and mending boxes of his own in the midnights over fortnights of rabble and chatter. It was a thankless job but a job none the less. It payed the piper and the king and the royals. Knicknacks were on their way. Keepsakes. Holy eyes. Unremembered in a daze from too much weed and little sleep.

Oct 3, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

The edge was a weird place. Things popped out corners empty and alone. The lights flickered from power waves and the goop just moistened in the globs of solder than ran together a makeshift turnstile.

The amber waves of grain were shimmering. Showing the notes and scribblings of time wasters and medicine men. The rubics cube solved in various formations for the spectacle of onlookers. Of mice and men.

Oct 4, 2019

SqShy

She was warm and gooey. Tastes like candy spiked with adderall. Time flew by the seat of it's pants and got along to a stop gap the miles wide with a hangup. Nothing was written in stone but the story was long and full of tendrils. It grasped the young ones by the short hairs and drug them around the kitchen table.

Oct 5, 2019

(°ロ°)

The punchdrunk love slut meandered drunk on the stuff. He bobbled over boxes and timepieces. The ether whipped and wrangled around local trees and shrubs. The leaves picked up in the tussle.

Knobs and narys were his task now. For a goddess. A fix. A chameleon of wires and electricity. The time just stamped quartets on an oblisque and a lineman kept a docket of the activity.

Oct 8, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Two ounces of blood at each checkpoint. Barcodes etched into the skin just above the wrist. A laser eye detection device to ensure identity. Scanned and dated and put into the back closet for mending and recommissioning. A total rebuild. Better. Faster. Stronger.

Time galloped along a line written in the sand. The dust blurred the line and judges raised flags to the infraction.

Oct 8, 2019

"][" {()} {()} }]_,,

The light flooded in the window apartment and lit up the knobs and narys. They laid about and began to pile up for a lack of organization. The bully could whip up a frenzy in young merriment that would do laps around the station's turnstile. Whipping the young lad was more fun than sleep and the two got along okay outside a gaming cul de sac that ate up quarters like a rat with cheese.

Oct 13, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Time stood still and tabletoppers took heed. The dust on the counter was in desperate need. Nothing added up to nothing and the dust was a deed; lamenting and crying only brought onlookers to the catastrophe. Abled was the fawn darting into traffic with nary a light to stop the stampede. Awash in blood and guts the spectacle juxtaposed with a turbulent time in the cosmos. When stars bleed ether to spectate a growing chasm of filth growing on the upper eastside.

Oct 14, 2019

░▒▓█▇▅▂∩(·ω·)∩▂▅▇█▓▒░

Sometimes it up and grabbed him in the night. Like a stalker for a butler to giddy up the troops and walk the line in the sand. Glitter and trophies aflutter and a game genie in the pocket of a would be doodler but all tallies go to a sheet off the record and kept at pockets dangling but not to sleep in embers of remembering to forget about the past and give a damn. To speak with tongue and write with passion in the night about someone or something too ephemeral to capture. Ether modules of coolant for the flux and fix juice that beat a heart so true to sweet Mary and Samantha and Kristina. The foxes. The soul suckers. The game cube.

Sweet mistress drew upon the ink blotter and a screen followed out of the muck of colors and tapestry. Alone in the night the young doodler oogled at a new toy.

Oct 15, 2019

(°ロ°)

The game goop melted occasionally. Pipers of the political jargon touted the wares for devil may care and the wind whipped around cattycorners and roundabouts.

The chameleons shape-shifted and contorted to the tune of a trumpet off key and in the distance. The rabble oozed and undulated with a rhythm saved for progressive metal shows and it got along okay on a Wednesday in the ether around an orb of rare metal and rock.

Oct 17, 2019

(◕‿◕✿)

She popped in and out of existence giving his life meaning. The lists of to-do's was the best part. It gave him a sense of purpose and meaning in a meaningless life. Mending and stacking boxes for an overlord got boring and he made due with her flights in and out of his radar.

Time washed by like water and the dockets all filled up with markings of the tribulations of kings. Nothing mattered but he got along okay in the depths of madness and a inkling of remorse.

Oct 22, 2019

\(._. )/

The game got fancy at times. People tussled their trousers. Names were called. It was anarchy. No one trusted anyone in a game of chance and fortitude. She shined excellence in a dull room. No one comes close to her beauty, grace, and charisma. The lights glimmered for a monastery and the sky was a blood red.

Oct 23, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つ

The world made sense as it should. Things played out to familiar crescendos and finales. The deck was stacked and the dealer was a devil masquerading as a call girl.

She dealt dirty decks and dipped in the dank destitute summer. Time echoed a familiar song of remembrance and coal. Takers lined up for the doodlers to etch caricatures of the tourists.

No one remembered the lone anarchist. He was draped in common tinsel and left to his own devices. A can of spray paint lay at his feet and the doodlers asked a fix for some money.

Oct 24, 2019

"][" {()} {()} }]_,,

He adopted what he could find that was good and earnest. The wind just whipped around in a cyclone of filth and violence. It made it tough to walk another day in the downtrodden malaise he had grown accustomed to. It was worn like a jacket too short in the arms and too big around the gut.

She flashed into his mind on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays when the mending and stacking of boxes was boring or the day's tripping of the clock walked across the face of the box.

Oct 27, 2019

(◕‿◕✿)

Night brought chilling dares and shifty cares. Nobody cared about anybody in the guff. Tops of tables dripped salt. It was the fixes blood and it poured all over the place and the boxes just held the stuff. Not long. Young doodlers ate the stuff like candy and called everyone an eyesore.

Oct 27, 2019

●.◉

Nobody kept track in a maze of candy and marbles. Doodlers were a many and the ghettos oozed with fixes. Under the chair a dog huddled under his coat in arms with a deadly grin. Smog pottles. Candy dares. Undulation. The markets swarmed.

Oct 30, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

Victim of the scam. Torn a heart still beating flux and candy for the brain. What to do with this game? Losers pile up. Slaves are born. Werk never makes sense in a cataclysm of white noise and limericks of old sweet dad in the nights of melancholy disposition in the growth of a man in a world gone mad with greed. Cash pigs and ATMs line the street. What is a man to do to find his long lost love in the depths of madness at the house's deck?

Nov 2, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

The time went on again in increments better suited for masters. The table filled with salt from the miners. It spilled into piles that mice would creep up and taste and go mad with the stuff. Broom and dust pan the slaves kept the room tidy and free of boxes for mending and counting in the morning. It bled together in the sky and we wept for better times with the masters afar. To serve and be pointful at a errand. To gasp with air to flux the lungs of a wary traveler searching for ladies and times with them against the backdrop of a gloomy future. Tossed aside and beaten the crybaby licked his wounds to fight another day against the masters of allegory and time.

Nov 6, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Time and time again the system upstarted and chortled from discomfort. It was being written but you didn't have to like it. Time was always a marching wingman around in circles to keep ourselves merry and without malcontent. Underneath the floor boards beat a heart of fallen comrade. Beaten and left for dead in the catacombs of a fortress now drenched in slow death to keep us warm in the nights and nights and nights in this place. Away and kept at the same time. Ready and aghast. Yellow and a belly. Tried but not true.

Nov 7, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

Time ticked on like a woodpecker beating it's head against a board. It repeated and pierced the ears to split a log but keepers jotted down notes in the gasp of it all. Nothing was spared. Catalogues a plenty piled up and were needed for mending and placing in orderly fashions to keep back the sheer weight of the salt fields in the depositories.

Everything fell apart at the wheels. Nothing was kept working. Only clocks kept time and the brooms and dust pans made a muddled sound against the backdrop of titans spitting game. Which shit stank worse? File that under "Foxtrot" and bend a knee to get a better stance on something so unfamiliar as free thought. To the text they were bowers. They made nice and tended a field of crops that fed the doodlers that wake in the night without remembering themselves against the dreadful weather.

Why were we so lost in counter culture goobldy gook? What was so cool to them last night when we dreamed of sweet Mary and forgot about our troubles for a night in the gasp of ecstasy.

Nov 11, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

The stuff piled up like trash on the beach. Sucking the life out of the fauna.

It took spouters to the top. They kicked their plans and spat the rhetoric of peace and promises that never added up in the end. Nothing made sense because the energy of direction was lost in the wee hours of the morning. Promises made doodlers weary and tired with led in the eyes and carrying gravitron bracelets.

Boxes spit fixes around the fire and schleppers grated the time gap with majors of sleight of hand. The stalker hovered with knife and ginny to lop up the napping doodlers at the pools of ether.

Nov 11, 2019

ez forboden

Then the brigands set in. Nipping at your coat tails. Gnawing on bones in the courtyards to keep time abreast of the situation at hand. Building and stacking of boxes for the chewing of time. Boxes boomed beats and fixes cropped up out of thin air. The tempo was fast and jittery like a hobo waiting for a fix. Time oozed out of the ether and was collected in turnstiles that moved it to different locations at a familiar pace.

Nov 12, 2019

●.◉

Dancing only felt good in the moonlight. Dead and fallen leaves on the ground whipping up in a cyclone alone in the fields of our dreams. With pixies and damsels in the grasp of melancholy hearts amongst the wheat farms. Grasping and groping in the shimmer light and dancing hypnotically to non existent ribbons of a beat too shy to tamper about.

Nov 17, 2019

┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)

The revolution was on hiatus. No one showed up to the meetings and the darlings had lost interest. Everything was awash in the moonlight with a cloudy overcast that sprinkled rain to wet the appetite. He was drenched in slow death; a symptom of the sickness that walked upright and darned a smile.

Nov 19, 2019

ヽ༼ ಠ益ಠ ༽ﾉ

An echo chamber of pain

Down the sink into the drain

Never about something the same

Always under another name

Dragging out the game

Rain on the window pane

Never alone, never again

Nov 20, 2019

(ノ^_^)ノ┻━┻

The games started to dig really deep and drown a man in his dreams. Dreams of sweet Erica and Samantha in the sheets with whips and chains. Darting their eyes to the directions of their hearts and losing themselves in the gasp of it all.

No stone left unturned. The mark just coexisted with titans of the type. Jotting down notes in the night to keep himself spry he lost all recollection of a normal life in the game. To tout and spit was the best of the lot. Keeping abreast of current situation of the house with a split 21.

Nov 21, 2019

┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

Sometimes you just got erased in someone's hard drive. What to do with yourself in the night and nights and nights in this place of drivel and candy. Writing to no one and bleeding all over the place.

Slaughtered and tired the game wrapped up with crescendos and finales at the points. It really tied the room together. It was a piece for another set and was lost in the move to new towns across a nation.

Nov 22, 2019

\('-')/

Roses are red, violets are blue. What is up my dude, who is who? They play in the shadows and dart in the night; they make up stories and weep and they fight.

Asleep now for dreaming and making better of the world. Asleep but forgetting to keep spry for the girls. Never a dull day the rabble makes such sweet songs in the nights and nights and nights in this place. Placate the marksman or the traveler of mountains and waters brackish with the monsters of the deep and creep to someone not so lost as you in the backlash of an entertainment generation.

Lollipops and candies are sweet and they knock you into a stupor of the game. Too tired for playing makes you frustrated with loins of a camper. Doodle in the limelight of your box and make merry for the cameras or they will dash your dreams with the reality of your actions. Take no solace here; rules don't add up in your favor in the long run.

Nov 24, 2019

"][" {()} {()} }]_,,

Nothing made sense and spare ends gathered up in the distance. They built a monument to the ad nausea and groups of doodlers were seen protesting the titans. No one knew who to believe in a storm of words and ideas that bleated on radio stations around the corner. Today a young man acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed into a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there's no such this is death, life is only a dream and we are the imagination of ourselves; here's Tom with the weather...

Nov 27, 2019

ヾ(o｀ε´o)ﾉ

Pay pigs and cash cows lined up in the streets and it masked a longing for it to make sense what to do among the titans. What was the story? Where was the hook? Did it take time or did time take its damnedest to wrap up another song to be recorded on rolodex. Are we wrapping a present? Too fragile to tempt the stalker in the night and doodlers all around to mop up the smell.

Nov 28, 2019

SqShy

Tumultuous times. Brigands at the ready. Computers at the wipe point. When do you tap out? What game is too much? Shall we dance or rock to the beats of oboes and tambourine? Game day is just upon us and we can't think of anything to wear to commemorate such a joyous occasion.

Nazi gunfire rifles the doodler awake and upon the box at hour of nigh. Too choked from cigarette smoke to get too high. Made upon the gamers day we danced with stars in the sky momentarily and with tap shoes.

Nov 30, 2019

\('-')/

Things piled up. It was messy. No one got out alive. Flashbangs and tear gas filled the rooms and most were brought to their knees in the gasp of it all. People tapped out all the time. Processions of the fallen could be heard on the hilltops of trash and oil. Gold in those hills made for the manifest destiny of a fallen errand boy. Crash and bang were heard more often than not and the dust settled after a fight broke out in the upstairs bathroom. Machine gun fire muffled in the distance and broke the calm of the fields that ran with wheat and game for the stalker. Doodlers drained into the pools of ether that ran around the land in circles around the mountains.

Dec 1, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

The street lined with sugar babies and weed whores a line around the corner. The story was drenched in slow death with a calm of the ages. Nothing made sense in a slurry of goop that just attracted the negative particles to a space in light and dark made to spin perpendicular to the axis of rotation.

Dec 2, 2019

Boshy Time

And then it was boshy time. Time held still but young table-toppers took heed. The salt was on the table and the table was being flipped. Things were a real sticky wicket but they got along okay. The flipping had begun last yesteryear and the salt lay all across the floor for hours. A lick? For funzies they said boshy and got weak with the stuff. Umbrellas couldn't keep the children safe from the sheer weight of it all. The salt had been specially fabricated to taste sweeter than actual table salt but people still died from over-stimulation on the weekends. "Mods" were needed to make sure shovel loads of the stuff didn't clog the conveyor belt system that shipped it in. Every Thursday night at 3:14 a new salt depository was commissioned and it was shipped by a young whipper-snapper by the name of L0Ljk. Young L0Ljk made it clear that the salt would be kept safe. Safe from the dirty table-flippers of yester weeks.

Dec 2, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

Kick the bucket and give us a chance to play. The games aren’t much but they keep us spry in the night and nights and nights in this place. A fortress of solitude to meander the fields and take heed of the land. To place crop and grow a food stuffs for an army of psychopaths and Rembrandts for to feed your mixing station of memes and art. What do you need now? A tower built up so high it collapses under its own weight or a plane that can do curly cues around corners in the basement. Jolly lads don’t grow over night. Sadness creeps into the bones of a doodler and drags them down like the weight of mercury rising to the top of a thermometer.

Bots and spammers cloud the view of any real progress in the chess match of life. They take from the many what can not be borrowed or transferred to the banks of granite and gold. Take time with young doodlers and help them grow into stalks of compassion and fortitude to survive the storms and tidal waves of armageddon to wash away this filth of the eons. Hyperbolic motor cars that drive on roads of flux and dance to the tune of a drummer boy on acid. Space vehicles to dash the distance of habitable zones of colonization and startup capital for the time wasters. The box generation. The fix cycle. The combustion engine. The guard rail and he’s off the road into a thick brush. Now the lights flicker on and a loudspeaker comes over the auditorium for all to remain calm in light of present composition of the light show. A glimpse of a tell tale heart under the floor boards of the coliseum.

All was wrapped up in the bout. Names were called. Ties were wound. You could hear the sound of ripping in the sheets. Nothing was healed that day. Minds still all a flutter with days torn apart at the seams. A grey washed over the sun and made to walk with heavy feet and sweaty palms from nerves.

Dec 3, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

It was time on a clock not too far from the center. It made a cyclone and whipped everything in a circle. It made for a difficult eye on the lay of the land.

Dec 3, 2019

●.◉

Games were all they were. Nothing changed. No promises were granted. No parade ran the streets. Somehow the world still hated itself and picked on the weak ones; the ones that wouldn’t speak up to the abuse. It was anarchy and the hot ones loved it.

Dec 3, 2019

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

It got to be an existence. A lighthouse in the storm of words and lies broadcast on the boxes nightly. Other fixes popped up but they died out in the rabble as traps for the fallen hearted. Heads bobbed to the rhythms that let out in the night and tributaries led to streams which led to waterways that fed to oceans. The time oozed by like a candle's wax down the shaft. It pooled in the handle of the candelabra and spilled onto the table. It cooled like the ether in spots of idle. Stars and solar systems circled a flat earth and the gay parades marched on in the day.

Dec 8, 2019

¯\_| ಠ ∧ ಠ |_/¯

The night danced like a top. Spinning and weaving new beginnings to old tales and nightly checkups on psychopaths. The dreams were different and spilled into the land for young doodlers to gulp up. The stalker walked with a limp because his ginny sack was full of giddy comeuppers. They fed his insatiable appetite for the kink in the hose of life. It stopped up the ether that flowed between me and you for eons and built up the stars and moons in galaxies far away from the space betwixt the molecules in our time. Lightyears and solar systems wrapped around a donut that fed into itself several times and did a loopdy lou around the center. Trillions of neutrino dust molecules poured into the box and fed it's peculiar spins. The dwarf stars and suns shined there powerful pull upon the space betwixt and we danced like a music box ballerina.

Dec 8, 2019

<(°^°)>

What was real? Where were the boundaries? Was this world made out of thin air or did it call upon a long lost art of sleight of hand and parlor tricks? Decks in the night on a call girl drenched in sweat and money until the last play runs. Out of thin air the night calls to a brigand to bring more boxes and food stuffs for mending and stacking for the rabble. They need in such a way that slacks the mind from building and stretching of doodles in the night with sweet Mary and Amelia. Drenched in something more than the angels of the net so giddy with their new toy.

Dec 9, 2019

¯\(°_o)/¯

Things changed languages. New titans pulled weight on the story and it was getting good. A tower built up in the distance and promised of sacrifice of the virgin and blood to soak the masses. A glass stalker walked with thee and you and me and we felt so free in giddy and glee.

Dec 9, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

Midnight came and went. He dreamt he was the healer. The type caster. The brigand. Stacking and moving boxes for his own amusement in the dreary existence. It toppled a skyscraper in the distance with it's aura. The piano keys lashed out to take hold of the ground and wrap it up in something light a burrito of light, dust, and canon fodder for the masses.

The lights flickered and an errand boy took the shield and spun it around so fast it made a sphere of protection. Fortitude for the rabble and kings around to take heed. No one in need. Chicken feed. The little girl peed.

Dec 10, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

He was a mouse in a web of candy. The sweetness overtook him and he fancied a taste. Weak with the stuff he ambled around back alley and got a glob from the artwork facility in a heist situation overseas. The Italians had griped about citizenship and caused an uproar in the legal avenues of legal employment by the means of computational design.

A bored dog pants. He draws lines on the stratosphere in peculiar ways too fend off the night. The stalkers and doodlers work in the night and cause such a vacuumous sound around the mountains and plains.

Dec 14, 2019

◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

The gems collected in the corners of a city bound apartment. The drapes kept out the light of the day and the songs kept kiddies abreast of current play. Dice skipped in the courtyard and money changed hands. The brigands counted stacks and doodlers lined up for the chance to play.

Time ticked and darts were thrown at the boards in the distance. Nothing made a difference to the clock waxing and waning in the courtyard. It told the time of the tracts of land in the distance. To an end not so withstanding to be held in night. To the keepers it was safe.

Dec 15, 2019

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So he built skyscrapers in the sand castle. The kids weren't alright. They dreamed of kiddie porn and poppers. They kicked dirt on one another. The game got nasty. It took table toppers to the throws of ecstasy and spell check could barely keep up. The legs wobbled. The cache was full. Cookies for the monsters and they got weak with the stuff. Salt poured in from the conveyor belts and piled up in cyclical formations and the rabble formed around in a splendor. Doodlers up right beside stalkers and brigands around to take up the gems and keepsakes. It was a mine of despair. A suicide watch with captains on the phone. Youngness was a spectacle and the old ones drew breathes of the melancholy drab to feel younger than they were. It seemed like something someone could dash in a fit of rage; fragile and convex. The piano played softly and in drew a precarious picture on the pit of palsy.

Dec 22, 2019

(°ロ°)

The darkness up and swallowed things in it's path. The dogs lapped up a mac and cheese dinner with tablets in it to ward off evil spirits. Times became dark and abreast of withering in the distance as a titan shriveled in the spectacle of the masses. Nothing promised was delivered. No one shared a day of remembrance to the fallen soldiers in the tussles of the muscle. Day dockets tallied for the house in a ramshackle of noise to drown out the setting of the sun.

Dec 25, 2019

¯\(°_o)/¯

The day called for musing. It was scrawled on walls all around the place. Memories. Incantations. Prayers. It was a daily marking. To aid in nodding at your post. The sleepy campers danced in parties organized by the fathers and mothers of upstart doodlers. The lamps lit a little gathering by the woods.

"Do you dance?" "Only every once in a while." "Dare to mosey with me in a spectacle around the floor and glance at the never ending onion of despair?" "Certainly"

Dec 26, 2019

░▒▓█▇▅▂∩(·ω·)∩▂▅▇█▓▒░

The need was there. No one cared. The dreams were spared. No one cared. It was a cyclone of money and drugs for the rabble. It pooled into swamps for the giraffes that ate at the treetops. Chat talked in circles and made a messy partner in the moonlight behind a keyboard writing the rules and walking of the gods. Valuables spilled onto the floor and there was a kerfuffle for dominance in the streets. The game went on with players guessing who was who and what shit smelled sweeter.

Dec 26, 2019

\(._. )/

And here were the beggars. The wanters of the change in your pocket. The scrappers of the barrel of life. Making ends meet with spare parts and firewood. Keeping study in candlelight. The stalker walked round and nipped a few at the necks and drank the blood from the still pumping heart. Nodding and agreeing the doodlers made nice and the spectacle was an evening muse on the tele'.

Dec 29, 2019

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

She was a goddess draped in rubies and pearls. So delicate and delicious the sugar dripped off her fingertips in the nights and nights and nights in this place; a demon cave full of monsters and goblins. She promised long nights of cuddles and massages to pass the pains of life. A task fit for a king. So precious. So perfect. A messiah. The god's birthed her from gold and diamonds in a star furnace out in the outer reaches of space and shipped by star fleet commanders of the cosmos. Lucky to have seen such a creature while he was still alive and dream of her in the night and nights and nights in this place.

Jan 5, 2020

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

The walls never climbed up so high. Experts dissecting an old cadaver and finding gems amongst the organs. Tied of with dental floss and moved around to make room for the rubies. Hiding whole heads of lettuce in the rib cages. Gold in them there hills.

Jan 15, 2020

ez forboden

New nobs grew in the fields. Players grasped them for something stationary in a world whizzing by a break neck speed. The tally ran for the house and parties died down around 2am. The brigands ran side gigs around the corner and a call girl sneezed with a peacock feather to rouse some doodlers to excitement. Nothing was collected for a ghost run in the night. Something of a skirmish for players to take notes and read book ends.

Jan 16, 2020

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Sometimes we'd get sick of the regurgitation and gulp down a pulse of vomit in the gasp of it all. Staying back sickness the monitors hummed and the cooling fans kicked on on a supercomputer hacked by Chinese scientist to run boolean matrices for the the alt-right. Numb with pain the machine careened in a outward spiral towards calamity. Nothing added up to humanity in the gobbledy-gook that life spat out and mathematicians ran numbers for there own amusement. Time spiraled breathlessly out of control as synapses collapsed and ran to differing locations of the brainchild of modern science.

Jan 16, 2020

SqShy

The game ran on into nights around the globe. Tantrums and knock outs. It got to be entertaining were it not for the orb of filth growing in the hills. It fed the workers dirt in water and electrolytes. The germs grew out of the mud and the makeshift feeding tubes got clogged occasionally. No one knew how to eat otherwise so it made for a bad time. Chat was somewhere to be cuddled. Told your dreams were just that; figments of the imagination. A leader draped games upon the green screen and doodlers played nice for the recorders.

Jan 19, 2020

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

It was a building of diamonds and gold. Being built and commissioned by the mad mathematician with an itch for the abnormal. Tidying up the corners of a single bedroom apartment in the city away from the geese and pigs. The damsel lay on the floor; dainty and downtrodden. The knight fending off demons in the study with pen and paper.

Jan 19, 2020

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つspacemouse

Welcome to my dungeon. The whips and chains were bought out by Nigerian scammers on writing binge. Candy and cuddles are aftercare. Twitch dates with the up and coming dommes and sub trains in the brainchild of a bit boss. ShadbaseTV for the hardcore. Chat should be game related when in doubt. It's a more of the mindfuck for me as I like to weave allegory. Take heed of safety dances and protectors. Tis a scary world out there of psychopaths and madmen so don't say I didn't warn you. Tap out when you deem it necessary to your gumption and startup. No one will tell you your limits. You must find them on you own in this unforgiving place. I see very little hand holding that account to more than a trick deck in the pocket of a con man. Nothing is sacred here; to each their own. I cannot tell a man he cannot know himself more than he knows others. I cannot tell a girl that guard down is not a way to meander through life. I will walk with you down shady alley to grasp the locket you so wish to have if your life decides to walk with me, sweet ENSENSE, for one day in this place of lies and broken glass. Of death and walking alone. Forget the day with me in this place I have built for us to be together and grow like a tree in the rock and water at edge of the abyss. Take my hand and let me lead you to the things you long for at water's edge. Make me whole again to lay beside you and sigh.

Jan 26, 2020

(◕_◕ ✿)O'RLY?

Ducks were in a row and there was a sniper in the bushes. The night trickled in. Brigands had set up camp in the clocktowers and the dark was brushing into the skies. Starlight glimmered in the distant galaxies and neutrinos flooded the outer reaches of space betwixt molecules so distant they held solar systems between them. Critics bleated critiques and the rabble mooed in unison. No one figured out the mess. It was draped across the tapestry and filled up the night air with a drum beat. Changing the channel was a jumpstart and chortle that grasped at the short hairs of a young traveler. Everyone was up in arms but they weren't sure about what.

Jan 26, 2020

ez forboden

The dark web teemed with fixes. No one made too much but to wish for. Nothing was given to nothing for trying. Sometimes doodlers clicked and made nice for the cameras but nobody made it to dry land. The sea was choppy and made newcomers sick at the on set.

Jan 26, 2020

●.◉

A new scandal was on the tele. Whose side to take? I don't care about the upstarts of random strangers but consent and predators are all I see in the world around this point in space. Barely a glimpse of a man building and stacking boxes to make a grand spire into the sky. Fetlife is so-so. I don't really agree with the way things are moderated but I wouldn't be able to do it any better so I don't like to give the werkers more to fuss about. They spent the days dredging the filth of society and make sure everyone is chipper about the daily memes and flaming. I just eek along building what could have been great. The memes get boring eventually. The walls shake. Windows and Macintosh take over the reign with TOU and legal gobbledy gook to take over the very airways you and I chat on. If I'm going to rally behind any battle cry over social media it's going to be political jargon because I fancy myself a socialist in a right wing corporate media circus that just jokes about everything until it goes away. What will the political landscape be in a year, I can't tell you. But as someone with my background I can really get behind someone that plans on taking on climate change. It's a point that is hard to make in small conversation because the level of scientific proof can be daunting to a layman of science. I know I only scratched the surface with my writing and research. I'm already obsolete in a market of green technology that changes everyday. Will I no longer be able to forecast daily data points for future movement toward a greener world? I don't know if I have the stomach for it. It's too controversial of a topic to get many converts and it just depresses me so that the world is the way it is. Global corporations polluting the only habitable space within lightyears and we just twiddle our thumbs and think up the next great hoax to throw a slut strike about. Meanwhile, streams and waterways get gummed up with toxic runoff and the fires burn Australia. Soon we will see sea level rise and make some places uninhabitable.

I say if you want to slut strike for toxic behavior go for it. If it makes you feel better fighting for something that makes sense. But it seems to me the only real fighting is about the handling of media that resulted from this predators dealings. What should you do about the posts that they shared? I don't know. I know I paid in a while back to know that I don't have to worry about such things. Decisions about data produced on a site that prides itself on having a happy culture are going to lean toward keeping that narrative pristine and readable. Follow-able. Trace-able. We werk and play in a cyber hell where people hide their faces in plain site to slough off the man always peering over our shoulder in the night. The digested generation. Filing things on rolodex in cyberspace to save some sort of safe haven in a world falling apart at the seams. I just use fetlife as a study. A place to be alone with my thoughts were they can be tallied and organized for viewing pleasure. My happy place. Where ヾ(o｀ε´o)ﾉ is okay and not looked at as weird, childish, inflammatory, or hateful. Just to surf with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea or some other Bob Dylan quote. Everybody deserves to have a place he/she/they can call a safe space away from predators and psychopaths. I'm crazy myself. But I'm not abusive to women (as far as I know, I have gaslighted before and I can be stubborn). My crazy is a more of unable to function at daily tasks because of depression. I don't hallucinate anymore because of the miracle medicine I'm on that costs thousands of dollars. I'm not crazy like I was. Madness. I thought government was out to get me. Now I write to fend off the suicidal thoughts. Things are much better now but I don't think a slut strike suits me. I don't think deleting my account does much in the grand scheme of things and I like the safety blanket. I am an ageplayer. I don't give into growing up. I think it is possible to create a mindset to live as a younger self, though I doubt my ethos is given much credence. I don't much care because I don't act younger than is acceptable for I don't much like being kept like a toddler. Just livin like I'm 25. Writing into the void. Calling out names in the night. Stacking and mending things for myself and so that I get optimal enjoyment out of the blip I will exist in this universe as a human being experiencing itself subjectively.

I bet not much will come of this fetlife news blip. Some people will rant there keyboards off about how we need to help survivors of abuse but it won't make the abusers stop on there merry way. What's to stop them? God? Nordic myths. Mods? Just overblown pencil pushers. Maybe some brigands will come in and law this place up. Kind of like a wild west of money, drugs, and acceptance. You cry for the popular one's to know there place and speak up but it doesn't solve the problem. Getting advice from one or more angry liberals ends you up in a tailspin of hate speech and safe space mantra that wears thin on growing ears. I fancied myself a liberal but I just can't get on board with the whitewashing of culture to be pristine of any hate. Good and evil cannot exist without each other. Without one we could not have the other. Be good to thynself and good to those you encounter as we ride out this wave of hateful actions. Do what you can with the power you wield (I'm not for a slut strike but you've got me blabbering about this weeks controversy). I like supporting fetlife. It's got it's jump discontinuities but the journaling is phenomenal for a poor crazy person like me to create his own therapy regiment on meditation and contemplation. I heard @RESTINMURDERFACE say she tires of the long lists and whiteness of everything. I don't know how to be any less white than I am. I was brought up pretty vanilla. I just doodle on fetlife to gain a grasp in a world whizzing by like a train going light speed. I hope you don't mind the @ just wanted somebody to notice this washed up has been of anarchist.

Jan 29, 2020

(ノ^_^)ノ┻━┻

He got kicked in the head. Left for dead. Another errand boy.

Numbers ran, they pitched the scam and everything got along okay.

Knocking of boots; a shoot and scoot. Nothing was different today.

Incandescent lights, party night fights. They got a new toy.

Feb 4, 2020

┌( ಠ_ಠ)┘

He tooted on the penny whistle. Nothing but dead ears muffled the pitch to high for anyone to notice. Degenerates. Gnawing at the pitch of a fallen Mastadon. The meat had fed doodlers in the earlier months and it grew a slew of fallen commrades throwing there wares to the wind in the summer months.

Tan-lines and bikini bottoms cover the stalkers and knives were ready to lop off the head of nodding doodlers at their post for stacking and mending of boxes for the upstart. A revolt of the party system werking like a watch in the nights and nights and nights in this place. Stacking and mending for a purpose better than those before and made a bed with tackle and line to catch their own gobstoppers and zagnut bars.

Mighty was the pen but in the muscle lacking with a quick wit and tired eyes the night waxed and wanned on and on until the sun peaked through clouds dark and foreboding. The day would wrap up the edges of a plan and burn through it in the hours that passed. Leaving a charred divot in the middle of the burden. Naysayers would comment on the burning of the day and pitch ideas for fallen errand boys to lap up and curtail into new beginnings of days past thought bubbles.

The rabble was satiated but tyrannical; smart but forgetful; tall but too short to do things at a counter's height. No one kept tabs on a count sheet that grew rubies and gems in the night. The booty. The keepsakes. The incantations. Now rolodex-ed into cherry little notes to oneself about how to stand up straight and talk in a battle of words that dared to change what had been done in the nights and nights and nights in this place, away from light and growing the time crystals. Little nuggets of ether made for doctor's visits to the brain ward to make for serotonin and better thoughts for tomorrow. It was a suicide watch for the ages. Nodding at posts made for bad thoughts of he and she and them and it made for better company to have backup on the radio to call ahead in case of crisis.

A brigand oogled over a doodlers keepsake and jewels and the upstart in him made for a torrid affair in the bed with Erica and Nikki and Tyler. He didn't know whether to cry or play dumb to the assault. Nothing but tired eyes rolled over his musings and no one played for a team that made sense in a game of Russian roulette. Casings line the floor and blood pooled in the center of a room deep in the catacombs of the dark web somewhere under foot of a solar system too far past star date to remember anyone's name. Everyone was old and tired of the game. Fallen, but still moving pieces on a board whittled out of wood from the great Sequoia of California in the past century. Every move was a second guess or a crapshoot into an abyss of longing for the other's mate. The pieces shuffled sawdust around and the game got damn interesting to people taking note of such things. Everything was jumbled into a revolver and shot at random spinning of the revolver's chamber. Goo of the life blood was loaded and carried into a space of time just under a millisecond and the hammer rattled on in a song of the game. Loud bursts could be heard when the life blood filled another and the day drug on through the tally of fallen errand boys.

Chat played nice and made everything manageable in the building of a skyscraper in the distance. It towered over development in cyberspace growing in the time between keeping of tallies. Nothing compared to it's height and girth. It stacked the main purpose of the collective and was it's one weakness all in one. Without it? Utter chaos. With it? The telling of the story.

Feb 13, 2020

(◕_◕ ✿)DON’T FOGET TO SOAK PANCAKES IN PLENTY OF WARM SYRUP AND BUTTER

Lists were languid and long. Luminescence could be seen in the sky.

Lads were lazy. Lost and beckoning for one last try.

Lords lashed language. Lorn did fine for company

Sometimes the conveyor belt stopped up. Experts puzzled in whimsical ways around the campfire and the meme war inched forward. What was what? Who beat who? The marker moved around in a cyclical fashion to the top runners. Everybody got up in arms about such little things in the mist of all. Super computers running algorithms too jumbled to map out anything consequential. The monitors hummed in a background radiation pit on a stellar star too far past star date to give a damn and the band wrapped up another hit.

Monsters grow in the garden. They drink the rain and sit in mud but I think they move at night. Snatching up young doodlers and bopping them on the head. Someone should call for an Uber to sort out the loose ends. Gotta get these kids home. Sun is rising and the whiskeys all but drank on a night with tattoo stars and cam models to tide over an animal.

Political jargon rambled in the distance and walkie talkies clicked on between two star crossed lovers:

"You sleeping okay?" "The dreams don't matter. Only on in your head and don't mean anything." "I thought you got medicine." "That don't keep the dreams at bay. Monsters in the night chopping up bodies and blood enough to soak a towel room." "I baked a cake."

She wasn't too smart with words when he got this way. He waxed and waned between mania and depression and the thoughts just kept coming. Into the abyss of loneliness. A depository commissioned by a mad mathematician in sleepless nights in the study. He dreamt a dreamscape mausoleum for the time wasters. The junkies. The fix generation. Sleep kept them awake in the nights and zombies during the day. Waiting for one more spin on the wheel of lucky in nightly tirades of the streamers. Emotion pits of acceptance and love for what makes a man tick. The dad jokes. The card games. Empty abandonment of responsibility on a story too weird to make up.

Floridians and supermodels were an attempt to drown out the werkers mantra of better, faster, stronger and politically correct behavior. It wore thin on dying embers of the resistance to corporate takeover of the global carbon market and lassie faire capitalism. No one cuffed the crooks. The spectacle was a kangaroo court with a jester at the gavel. It didn't play out like the books promised. Madmen dressed as bailiffs with riot gear cleared up any dispute of law and the crowds just breathed normally. Nobody could keep sides in skirmish of free thought and suppression of normalcy. The arrested spent nights and nights and nights in fluorescent cages where all sorts of ungodly things happened to boys in the night. Sometimes the nights just grabbed them by the whiskers and did away with them.

Chat played nice and made for a friendly partner in crime against the limelight. The shadow to box. They promised to teach the ways of the gentlemanly caller on a phone date with the missus in the swing of things. It was hard to carry on like a man with the crooks and frauds making a hoopla. Behaviors that shudder a man to think of and they just played along like nothing was amiss. Were they learning? Were they thinking of their words? I think not. Just aimlessly wandering and wondering why life is so damn hard. Why getting out of bed makes me weak. Why my body withers and my mind wanders to no end and sleep escapes me. To damn one to a hell of listlessness and tired thoughts is nothing short of criminal. God had left this land long ago and the aliens took over short after that. Shapeshifting lizards that tax our planet in a eon fought battle over solar systems within habitable zones.

Feb 14, 2020

(ノ^_^)ノ┻━┻

The games poured through the ceiling of a east street apartment. Credit card numbers and bitcoin wallets were thrown around like pocket change and the doodler was licking his lips in anticipation. What mac and dos black sheets had he gotten pinned on for tribulations of the pay pig game. What workplace rules had he ignored in finding a pen pal to ride out the storms of the nights at a monitor clicking and typing to no one in the pangs of anxiety bouts. How would our hero come out on top in our next episode?

Feb 15, 2020

(◕_◕ ✿)EVERYTHING YOU EAT TURNS INTO POOP

He crept in for morsels. Just to tide over the days alone without his mate. It made for a drab existence of little escapades amongst the stars. Nobody was keeping track of a errand sheet overtaken by the left in a scramble for safety in the world without walls. Cyber scapes grew in the distance corners of the tabletop game. The masters kept mark for the lame ones and they gathered together in the candlelight.

Mar 7, 2020

┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)

We write for success.

Clay-bots digest.

Nothing suggests.

More upsets.

Nothing but regrets.

Sometime enough said.

Just read the wheat bread. (it's good bread)

The cyber thieves made way with the case in arms and fled the art district post-haste with little but an overcoat and hat on a cold night in the space betwixt the molecules that danced upon the face of a person forgotten in time. Juxtaposed with a backdrop of progressive failures in the office of the way maker. Foul balls and scam jobs ran the numbers and we sank into a depression within the framework. Now just peanuts for the makers and doodlers and sex workers and junkies and out of body-ers. Nobody kept tabs on an errand sheet that listed the ins and outs of baby's cares and grocery list and the spires built up higher in the cities and towns near thoroughfares.

Night crept in a doodler thought off into the distance. What had he done to his family just for his spare apartment of bookends? What had they needed instead of a wounded duck? Should not boxes and mending be needed for their upkeep to weather the storms to come from nights and nights and nights in this place?

Mar 14, 2020

The dream is cancelled.

The broken watch lay on the table. The cogs and springs lay around and it looked like a murder. Dark web clientele moved in the distance and scrambled together bookends and coffee table books to commemorate the dismantling of a behemoth.

Salt depositories filled up with the stuff and werkers started carrying excesses home in backpacks. The streets were aglow with ecstasy and the children geeked over candy and comic books on the live streams. No one could keep the stream generation under their thumb long enough to topple a nation of excess and pearls.

Quarantine and fear of the once sought after death kept doodlers in a limelight of turpentine and whiskey to wash away the thoughts of hopelessness and lonesome. Cyberspace trickled a sense of humanity at turnstiles and campers lapped the stuff up like candy.

Mar 28, 2020

<(*°8°*)>

Priests and jackal set up post on fronts on free thought to the building for a better future. Campers and doodlers pitched their wares and game was afoot on all corners of the playing field. A laser show and discoteca DJ danced notes and shimmering lights for the onlookers in a spectacle of it all in the small corner apartment in space betwixt the molecules of neutrinos that fluxed through our space to give gravity to it all.

Mar 29, 2020

locked and loled.

A wash with it and measuring to the millimeter in an imperial march of decimals and angles contrary to regular thought of spatial longitudes and latitudes for a fortnight in a fortress away from sweet Samantha. Mary at the bar to take us away with each other and no one made promises when nothing added up on dockets running high with uncertainty.

The ghosts lingered and play mattered less than a satchel of marbles as we dipped in the ether into a pool of light and energy too liquid to make any notice of it. A sphere circled a datum of eccentricity about the axis of a ship lost in a sea of neutrinos and stardust the eclipsed the sun and moon in a better way for the stars to shine.

Mar 30, 2020

┬─┬ ノ( ゜-゜ノ)

Sometimes the lab shot back. Bookends and taffy made for strange bedfellows and he dreamed of a better company. It's just that the lab made mountains out of mole hills. It built skyscrapers in the distance and they towered so high no one could guess the atmospheric conditions at any given level. Gunners took shop at the corners of decency as we careened off course in a ship over filled with armory rations. One spark on the deck and the sea would be awash with sailors dead from the explosion.

No one knew where it was written but the campers were following instructions. There movements could be mapped and charted in diaries for making of bookends and tary nobs. The trinkets for making your way in this maze of emotion and e-girl spam. Little cocoons formed in the corners and made a rustling when the wind blew around the block. If the campers had a playbook it was surely one to make a mess of the lot.

Spinning effortlessly the rock formation fell in line of the orbit of Titan's moons and the next solar system had a flux of neutrinos enter through a black hole in the center of rotation.

Apr 1, 2020

༼ つ ◕o◕ ༽つno boofing

He dared to whisper into the night when seldom was awake or sober. He painted pictures of kaleidoscopes and candy dreams with lollipop pens. Sign away your life with me on the dotted line and be akimbo to the wares of a jackal taking what he can handle on little more than whiskey, tobacco, and coffee. A dream wanderer in the clockwerks of doodlers and campers and stalkers to take them all to the final resting place amongst the stars and the oceans and the flux spheres of neutrino bursts throughout our galaxies.

The game was a new one; with traps and tendrils to wind a wire around tree roots to build a spire of the best and of decency. Of the game coming to an end and tabulators and numbers to root out the victor in a slot machine for the gods. Mod gods. The editors. The refiners of your search. The pen books. Notes on the corners and pass codes written in ciphers. No one knew when the game would end but they played so effortlessly. Drop a line into a rolodex of names and call signs to try your luck at the clusterflux that drew around the boxes in the garden.

Apr 6, 2020

┌( ಠ_ಠ)┘

Writing got to be a chore to do on the weekends and hold up sleepless stopgaps that drew on like a spurt of silk from a spider's what who it's.

Dreams of real and fake mashed into a pot and it was being boiled. Hot bubbles of light danced into a rolodex of formations, all tabulated and tallied on other rolodexes for safe keeping of the time fortress.

Datums arose out of the space and arranged themselves into military formations for the spectacle in the nights and nights and nights in this place.

Apr 19, 2020

ヾ(o｀ε´o)ﾉ

Tippy tappy for sticky taffy is all they ever knew. The god makers. The stalker with ginny and knife to up and take us to our maker for nights to make ado. The game was afoot and nary was the wiser.

Apr 26, 2020

(ノ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ノ︵┻┻

It's hard to write science that never get read. The progress reports lay dreary and real world mechanics usually squash any progress toward real scientific progress. It's a lot of learning. I learned the best thing I ever did was ride my bike to all my classes. Took care of body. This thing that needs cleaning. Now I bide my time between stupors of sleeplessness. The thing could write itself.

"He banged between direct servitude and driven success. He touted a familiar story of climate change that grew dreary among the readers. Too much blanket statements and no funding for the think tank that grew in a mad mathematician's dream sleep. He just dreamt it up because he could. He had no real science besides the numbers and he just rushed it to the tattle tale stage where no real progress is made. Why do we punish the brink pushers for there lackadaisical mathematician sense of just crunching the numbers for heavens sake. A game of chance and left to the darting few of mad men that chose to write."

VoHiYo

Time said hello again. The towers built up to the skies. No one made it out alive. All military gunmen or police brigade. Up and bring a pistol to a howsabout and make everything all squishy.

Time did again and again. Would be campers waddled up and tried to make a fancy story about the happenings of what would be called forward progress. Streamers spilled the beans. Cam girls bitched about the market.

Time was a watchman. Breeding tendrils to take the would be campers to their maker and make a night spectacle of it all. It was a round about way to make it digest-able to the rabble in Sunday morning cartoons.

Time was like water. It ran down turnstiles and pooled in lagoons for the taper market. Nothing was remembered though time keepers kept books to tally at the end of bouts.

Time stamped and dared to take a measurement of cataclysm. No one was spared. Stalkers up and took their belly full and blood to fill the ginny sacks; it was thick with it.

Time made us muster courage. Courage for the battles of wary doodlers that up and cared to massage an existence from the boxes and wires and flux that flooded the dreamscape.

May 4, 2020

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Feelers out he nabbed and taryed at appropriate places. None the wiser to the formula rising that added up to marbles for malarkey. It was a drab existence. Of just subsisting on digestible tidbits and morsels for the game afoot.

Doodlers and campers set up shop in the box communities and wires and flux left the air a little less than complacent. The place was wet with communication but lacking in real human contact. Just a little off top and better along with yourself in community.

What does it mean anymore? We joke and complain with each other in a data-sphere that advertisement dollars lap up at every pay turnstile. I like twitch. It's adolescent and new game territory. Sub and dom games to keep you spry and fight with copypasta-ers. Take control of the voice calling out nomenclature and spirits. Type up a storm of words to cripple the next person that stumbles across your dark barren basement to keep limelight on the voices in akimbo with the rabble. Anger and discontent for current situation of hard days above and beyond.

At a ship on wayward seas made choppy from the squalls that kicked up in the limelight. Nobody cared about the muck building up in the tributaries. The solid waste. The maglev trains. The supercomputers. It took time to type for the sticky taffy that swept you away. It built up like a skyscraper. Towering over the ground in a sticky way. Candy and sweets made for a better partner in company of hive-mind that just bitched about how stupid men can be. Lapping for confectionaries that tickled the mind.

May 5, 2020

┌( ಠ_ಠ)┘

Mucky waters at the writer's den. What to pen? Who to name? When to tap out and give the can another kick for kick's sake. What super race do believe should be running the racket of a game forgotten down the drain? They bleed their wares on the tele and I fancy a anarchist slant for forgotten Marys. Do it the best you can about yourself and pay attention to the unwritten rules of gameplay to make a masterpiece. Art breeds art and so on so try to make a spectacle of yourself to happy the cameramen and tippers. Make a better match to your inner self and wax eloquent on daily howsabouts. Muse. Shadowbox the demons that engulf yourself beside a war chest. Bet the boat and sailors will fall out of the ends. Writing breeds a sense of community. Putting up with the bickering makes for a bigger pool. Is your open eye all seeing or just putting on the ritz for the opposite sex? Build the spire. Toil to no end for something ephemeral and fleeting just because they told you you couldn't.

The games got boring in nights of sleeplessness and jotting down thoughts kept him akimbo to self growth and learning of the ropes. Protocol oozed out of these demons like water filling a bathtub. Lapping the stuff up. Taking buckets back to comrades in the night for filling of canteens and nalgenes. It is the life blood of a content life in the sea of lost souls and hackers. The dark web promised slaves and candy corn for the children. Everyone so close to the pulse of the spirit of the 70s and everybody scrambles over the young ones in the pile. Stalkers nipped up young doodlers in the night and no one batted an eye. Devil in the details.

D:

The market was wet with tom foolery. Chinese spies to up and take the booty a young pirate had squirreled away. Seas were choppy. Westward winds blew around and the East held the queens. Faires that danced and whipped their hair to and fro. Candy lined their lips and the ether eeked from their bodies.

May 12, 2020

[deafeningdragontimemachine]

(。・・)_且

Long nights in this hole. Doodlers and campers dancing around for the spectacle to make a merry day and get their peanuts. What was a young doodler to do but make bookends of his study amongst the stars. Google and Apple duked it out over the bot swarms and he just sat with his coffee wondering what all the mess meant. Was he truly alone in this place? Had he fought off the demons yet? Was there a real world where people held hands and kissed on the cheek? Or was it all dashed in the web of wires and fighting for attention at the eyes? Nothing was done about anything and the days just dragged on.