One Oh One One

The JP told us that this was a social contract, but social is a bad word if you add ism; shudder. No Sir, I'll walk it off, thank you. How would you know the tallest tree is between three and four hundred feet high? Hey just like me, will you hate it later, when you want to finish your own sentence? I type and the music changes; who made this piece of me/rde? No plugs, rants or weirdness? See spellout leave: to talk at the television, fall asleep to instant dreams, where everyone's in panic trying to remember the smell of a baby. 1 me, 1 you, 1,?

Some Sappy Tree Frog Love Song

Watch out now. No, by the Beatcunts. No, not in a bad way. Bluefinger on minispeak, lacks; mine are black. That's great about your life story, there. Now, where are your white walls? Don't touch me. Now, I drop to my knees and hold my hands up high to you, the international sign for pick me up; don't you hate it when they spell it out? Why won't you touch me? Scout me a wee hoor, wait that's a mirror, and I am a rhyme. I never said I was good. Even a good liar. But I won't stop trying. Yours In, In. No, not Indiana. I'll put it where and how I want. Because belligerence makes adrenaline, and we're all shaking in the swings between the stakes; where the big yellow graders roam. Im In, In. No, never, mind.

Excessive Levels Of Dead

What the Wegians, Glasgow Coma Scale? We know from that. Approaching level 3, vegetative state. We were never #15. Mayhap they're being born and we're doing purgatory with pricks, of pain and comedy; verisimilitude, as if sanity had anything to do with that and this, is normal. There now, all said twice; the quicks wait patiently, for the throbbing coming, and this, is normal, too. Of a sorta.