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It's like a big monolith. And not the T. Rex song, that would be Monolith. Now i've lost my train of thought. I once rode the train from Bakersfield to Aberdeen. With Rosa Parks. No, that was a bus... to, Birmingham? It doesn't matter now. That time is gone, the PAST, it's all gone. But where did it go. It's still here, in part. We hear it on record, read it in print, feel it... somewhere. Somewhere DOWN THERE. You know the place, the place you "dare't not go". Motherfucking scary down there! Kinda shit you have to repeat, just to get across how big it is. "I'm fucking scared! Fucking scared." It's a rip off (again, no, not the T. Rex song). It's a rip off. You ripping this off from me, who ripped it off of him, who ripped it off from you. (give it a minute) What's the opposite of rip off? Rip on? That doesn't make one ounce of goddamn sense, now does it? Fix on is more like it, now isn't it? Or, innuit? Think of the UNITS! What a beautiful 'package'. How do you fit into that 'package'. "I stuff it hard, ma'am." "Lady of the night, won't you steal away with me?" The money not enough, whore? "Was I alright?" How the F should i know? What do i fucking look like, The Wizard of Ox? That would be Thunderfinger supreme. Without the E, i suppose? I miss my Slurpee so much. But i need to freeze it, it was badly melted. But i really, really want it. Just hold on. No! Listen, asshole, i'll fuckin' belt ya. Oh yeah - ooh, i'm reeeeally scared, Buddy. I will seriously DRILL your ass. "My... my ass can take it," he says, like a proud American. So dry, so dry - cat so high. I've been quite giddy myself lately. Don't mind if i do & pass. Har-har, says the man with the keen dickey on, underneath his schnazzy Izod shirt. "Well, golly gee, how's the team gonna do this year... playoffs... finally win the big one..." Callin' it "ridin' the Gravy Train". What if the doctor told you, "Well, your shit's fucked up."? I'll be goddamned if you've got an answer. It'll satisfy. For all intensive purposes. Pulling the bowl over your eyes. Zip-zooming all around the country. Been flyin' by jet, been flying by plane/Wonder if i'll ever see 'im again Something bout fishing down by the sink-hole pond. Little terd wafers. Er, waders, i mean. Little feets, paddlin' by. Scratch off here and win. Well, whippitty-wee for me. Tee-hee and Barbara B. Go put your F-ing V somewhere it shouldn't B. I wanna be a Hip-Hop session musician. I wanna be the guy at the beginning of the song who goes either, "Uh," "Yeah," "Girl," or "Ooh." They'd call me Schmoover Gary G. Even though that's not my real name. It'd be my Hip-Hop name. Spoony Soulove would be my real name. Coming straight out of Armenia, city in the sky. "Yo, yo, yo." Hey, y'all, where ya been? Down South Junkin? Well, shee-at. What if you tasted something once that was the greatest taste ever. Would you make the "sweetly retarded" face? I would, cos i've already been to that place. I'd even do the small itch motion. Like, to pardon. Or remove. Wait a sec, i'm losing grip here. I was on track, or "the" track, to somewhere possible funny, possibly humorous. Or HUMUNGES. Is that a word? Maybe a wird. I'm Raising Steam. Life seems to be summed up by the Cat Litter Deodorizer. Something about make shit-en-ade. When given apples, make apple-ade. Someone wrote on a wall in Pompeii, "Everyone writes on walls except me." That's a goddamn genius, right there. What else is there after that? Well, i mean everything after that is, but seriously - good phrase. Best phrase... EVER. Give that guy the award. STOP. Litter odor. Four guys in a box - I Dig A Pony. Shaggy-haired, loose-lipped, stoned-sober, the long-short of it. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Meow. Bark. Live it, love it, lump it. Start from Scratch & end up in Albuquerque. Or maybe Lenox, MASS. The airplane cometh & the Ice Man flies. New Jeru Bib, The. November 20 - 1968, so far away, so close. Still here, even though it's been & gone & went & left... so on & so forth. Come forth. Or fifth. You're only the third loser. Or fourth. Round "The Syph" sores on the middle of each middle toe. They hurt when they bend. So "Mannix" he is. Or 'maniac' is. Or? Or or and? He can't answer & neither can i. Abandoned, left, scurry... go away. "Scratch" Perry, at the controls. Bowel control. Unit protection. When you're sober everything's contrived. It's so easily spotted for what it is. It doesn't give you that kidney "chill". It's just limp. Like bad broccoli. You can fake it, but you'd know, even if no one else did. But they'd know, you know they would. How could they not? The burn starts at the bottom & works it's way up. Like a match, only backwards. Fffftttt. I saw the one in the park today. The unisex, unicolor, unishape wonder. It's a big powder-blue blob, or something of the sort. Stripped, bar-bell wonder-stretch rubber pants. Wide hips for wide-asses. The wider the ass, the more fun the sentence. Good string. "Life sentence, coming this way, chief." And you hear the garbage-truck-in-reverse, "beep, beep." And you know, YOU know... something wicked this way comes, in the hole, deep & dark. Me-oh-my, golly-gee, hardy-har-har. The width in this is tremendous... even, stupendous! Wee-maw! Marr, marr, marr. I left off at a place, began there, stopped there... never BEEN there, though. The Gay Blade strikes again, i guess. |