over and under and out she flows
and into and out of and away she goes
with highs and mids and dangerous lows
you wonder what it is that she does
perhaps she waits
finds the rich and dates
calculates mortgage rates?
laughs at the young men she just baits
could be anything, anything at all
could be hiding a monster, ten feet tall
could be a cardboard cutout, anything at all
could be Cinderella, back from the ball
And you'll never know, you have no mouth to speak
can't pronounce any word, with only a beak
you'd love to dance, but prey on the weak
a monster is you, and what do you seek?
someone to feel
a person to be with
but she's just your next meal
and you're just a myth
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
feeling ornery
Lack of sleep perhaps, is what this will be attributed to, when II regain my noraml mindset, but who is to say that this isn't truly who I am? Question of the day, would the world be better with no drugs?
I wrote my college essay, but I wrote it poorly, it's really an extended whine more than anything, and what of it? I don't even know. I like fiction, hard fiction, real life wothout facts, like this:
It's easy, too--you start with some mood words:
Blackness, despair, and no more zebra cakes...
Then introduce something interesting:
The walls exploded inward as the tears ran down my face. The lizard was dead, and the cat, too, perhaps forever-- I could hardly see from the laser lights beaming around, the scythes of gold, from the tips of their guns, and the blood, the dank stench of the death of creativity, the scourging and felling of life itself. Perhaps death itself too; I don't know, and as the bulletzs scream their murder at me, perhaps I never will.
I would cry, but the phoenix stole my tears, and I sold my hope for a new heart for the rhino.
They bullets travleled infinitely slow, and I remember when this happened to the turtle, and it's hope, but then euclidian geometry smashed away its brains, and I can weep now, woth the force of the suns, streaming their tears into oblivion as the contemplate the distance betwwen them ,and they know it's futile, and they explode and O!, how I cry, and the rivers pouring from my segmented jewel eyes is a waterfall weighing down these infinitely slowing bullets, and it seems as though fate has taken pity on me, but I know it hasn't it is choosing to prolong me forever, ever tortured, and quite frankly, I only regret one thing, and that is classified, but it makes me sad, and there in the colours is the answer, mania, the opposite of depression, and the zebra walks up, and I forgot it, but now I know it again and it takes me away from the evil, but it follows me, everywhere, and there are still no zebra cakes, in all existence!, but I console myself on the vulgar obtuseness of sunshine and honeydew, and they all die in the end, but fate hates me, and never any more zebra cakes, except when in my madness I kill the zebra.
I wrote my college essay, but I wrote it poorly, it's really an extended whine more than anything, and what of it? I don't even know. I like fiction, hard fiction, real life wothout facts, like this:
It's easy, too--you start with some mood words:
Blackness, despair, and no more zebra cakes...
Then introduce something interesting:
The walls exploded inward as the tears ran down my face. The lizard was dead, and the cat, too, perhaps forever-- I could hardly see from the laser lights beaming around, the scythes of gold, from the tips of their guns, and the blood, the dank stench of the death of creativity, the scourging and felling of life itself. Perhaps death itself too; I don't know, and as the bulletzs scream their murder at me, perhaps I never will.
I would cry, but the phoenix stole my tears, and I sold my hope for a new heart for the rhino.
They bullets travleled infinitely slow, and I remember when this happened to the turtle, and it's hope, but then euclidian geometry smashed away its brains, and I can weep now, woth the force of the suns, streaming their tears into oblivion as the contemplate the distance betwwen them ,and they know it's futile, and they explode and O!, how I cry, and the rivers pouring from my segmented jewel eyes is a waterfall weighing down these infinitely slowing bullets, and it seems as though fate has taken pity on me, but I know it hasn't it is choosing to prolong me forever, ever tortured, and quite frankly, I only regret one thing, and that is classified, but it makes me sad, and there in the colours is the answer, mania, the opposite of depression, and the zebra walks up, and I forgot it, but now I know it again and it takes me away from the evil, but it follows me, everywhere, and there are still no zebra cakes, in all existence!, but I console myself on the vulgar obtuseness of sunshine and honeydew, and they all die in the end, but fate hates me, and never any more zebra cakes, except when in my madness I kill the zebra.
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