kahljorn
Jun 30th, 2003, 05:05 AM
I don't know. Candy.
IMPROV DANCE SQUARED OFF TIMES SIX
Yellow squares in the air
Hues of golden in unrepair
Bright light left withered
Couragous prophets demonize
Teachings of the coarse
Tainted with pragmatic prayer
bleep
Phone calls to the savior
Called collect to 911
THEY DO NOT ACCEPT THE CHARGES
Tax collectors ate my wounds
They love that taste.
That's without grace
Gimme some Waffles
beep
I wrote nonsense
And a small man read
With his red eyes
And such a clear head
About my lies
I scribed to God
Stamps cost three dollars
you Need to pray!
What the fuck
Drop it in the collection tray
WHAT DID I SAAAAY
Sneegles, the last man who stood with a coarse grain of unprovoked misfortune, touring his own despair with that smile showing gritty teeth and his tortured seed, blasphemy unleashed onto society from his ragged tongue riddled with teeth marks. One stone under his wing to drag him down and a tear to his left to mark his rapture, ungodly like a piercing flower and vines so sharp as to recognize the following legalities, dictate my final years with the little dancing pods, dancing pods. They live in my eyelids. They live off my sight, my perception of depth, lost in my time of rest. Feeding off my decay, as I feed off my detachment from the embers of my housing I burned with words. A cuss and a limrick, my six lined limrick. That man hated upon the thirteen, the thirteen. Why must you hate my thirteen, it loves to fly. It hates to cry. It loves those shows that brighten the eyes and tear the lips with a deliscious crisp. I ate a BLT, and it was good. I hate tomatoes.
IMPROV DANCE SQUARED OFF TIMES SIX
Yellow squares in the air
Hues of golden in unrepair
Bright light left withered
Couragous prophets demonize
Teachings of the coarse
Tainted with pragmatic prayer
bleep
Phone calls to the savior
Called collect to 911
THEY DO NOT ACCEPT THE CHARGES
Tax collectors ate my wounds
They love that taste.
That's without grace
Gimme some Waffles
beep
I wrote nonsense
And a small man read
With his red eyes
And such a clear head
About my lies
I scribed to God
Stamps cost three dollars
you Need to pray!
What the fuck
Drop it in the collection tray
WHAT DID I SAAAAY
Sneegles, the last man who stood with a coarse grain of unprovoked misfortune, touring his own despair with that smile showing gritty teeth and his tortured seed, blasphemy unleashed onto society from his ragged tongue riddled with teeth marks. One stone under his wing to drag him down and a tear to his left to mark his rapture, ungodly like a piercing flower and vines so sharp as to recognize the following legalities, dictate my final years with the little dancing pods, dancing pods. They live in my eyelids. They live off my sight, my perception of depth, lost in my time of rest. Feeding off my decay, as I feed off my detachment from the embers of my housing I burned with words. A cuss and a limrick, my six lined limrick. That man hated upon the thirteen, the thirteen. Why must you hate my thirteen, it loves to fly. It hates to cry. It loves those shows that brighten the eyes and tear the lips with a deliscious crisp. I ate a BLT, and it was good. I hate tomatoes.