*** Warning! Stream o' Mind Juice Ranting ***
Twin spires of discomfort 2day... smoking on the ass-end of sinus infection produces a cough which doesn't feel at all so good and hatred of women calling me back when they are damn well ready drives fingers to the heart of patience which in my case lays very shriveled due to tail-end of effects of one glorious shining month or revolutionary love warfare and two dark months of not having enough energy to even spit at the spirits of misery tearing apart my pulped heart - In Other News - must get ready for Halloween show with my apeish band, to sing to scream so dismally I will make angels shit themselves with fear and ol' Savino cry at my sheenless choirboy fall of Luciferian heights, spick and span this house I dwell in must be sick and sans dirt. O Job? (not Job, job) Why hast though forsaken me and your hidden your hideous steady flow of cash from me... I have outlines to fill in and outlines to start, steel to insert in and crowds to part, my library lies empty, my dvd player lies mute, I I I I I hate money but in the paradox that is money/work/capitalism/greed I must have the best bookcase on the block, the Jones' have nothing on me I left them in my wake ages ago to suck up dust and words left over from texts I tossed over the sides of my glorious land galleon, pride of a fleet in my head that needs to be fellatiated by words, by paper, by ink, by brightshiningpolishedyetabrasive prose and verse... fin
Transmission from the ziggurat ends
Twin spires of discomfort 2day... smoking on the ass-end of sinus infection produces a cough which doesn't feel at all so good and hatred of women calling me back when they are damn well ready drives fingers to the heart of patience which in my case lays very shriveled due to tail-end of effects of one glorious shining month or revolutionary love warfare and two dark months of not having enough energy to even spit at the spirits of misery tearing apart my pulped heart - In Other News - must get ready for Halloween show with my apeish band, to sing to scream so dismally I will make angels shit themselves with fear and ol' Savino cry at my sheenless choirboy fall of Luciferian heights, spick and span this house I dwell in must be sick and sans dirt. O Job? (not Job, job) Why hast though forsaken me and your hidden your hideous steady flow of cash from me... I have outlines to fill in and outlines to start, steel to insert in and crowds to part, my library lies empty, my dvd player lies mute, I I I I I hate money but in the paradox that is money/work/capitalism/greed I must have the best bookcase on the block, the Jones' have nothing on me I left them in my wake ages ago to suck up dust and words left over from texts I tossed over the sides of my glorious land galleon, pride of a fleet in my head that needs to be fellatiated by words, by paper, by ink, by brightshiningpolishedyetabrasive prose and verse... fin
Transmission from the ziggurat ends