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Old 08.20.2008, 07:41 PM   #106
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Join Date: Apr 2006
Posts: 28,843
atsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's assesatsonicpark kicks all y'all's asses
I come from the center of the earth
in the language of after death and before birth.
The man with the nuclear wallet in his back pocket
came closer to Utopia than the supposed 30 billion
inhabitants on Planet Earth circa 1939 when 26 billion
non-Jews died in an “EAT MY HOLACAUST”
when he put it all on red one metaphysical night in
Vegas and it came up blacker than the ass of jade
earrings worn by the princess of Phnom Penh while
the court practiced slam-dunkin' Portuguese generals'
colonial skulls into canopic jars made from kabbalistic
urns in Bombay by the Zoroastrian diasporadics who
became porcelain emperors from the profits of home-grown
Earl Moghal tea which was made if you may wonder from
the tender stalks of famous comedians' scalps because the
Iroquois tribe didn't take to hell the notion that piracy was
at its peak in the early 20th Century off Long Island,
sounding all too coincidentally similar to an old
Richard Harris ballad, cracking on a 78 phono player
in the droop bend of the Red leather pantheon bar.
Since the year 2323 will be the year of the future the
past isn't what it's going to be for all Sinhalese
clarinet blowers hopped up on amyl nitrate gang-rapin'
the highway from hell to breakfast at the speed of
vomiting diamonds or forever hold your peace trains
O.J. Love Boat Breakfast Chariots of mired in the mud
autobiographically speaking how the shit has no dame
to call and say I drug you for the association if the
enhancement of mallard rubles, cube steak also has a vision
of Siamese phlegm bouncing into limos from Salvation
Army Christmas bells autographed by Hans Muslim
Andersen. While the balloon full of money floats ever
closer to the outwretched palm trees dripping with
tabasco floss between your thief and a card face….
The Jack of Plutonium to be precise is towards that
elusive garlic bulb necklace around Fela Lugosi's
Richard Speckled murder scarf up the feces split into
through the capital of Lemuria is Antarctica City with
a primate marsupial population of minus 100 below
Spiro Agnew of Copperopolis wheel of torture fame
catapulted his thyroid blandly upon the ruler of the Wong
Dynasty, but Monty Hall wasn't pleased with Pat hijacking
that Vanna-American flight to the pituitary gland of Max's
Convenience Market or to end-all obtusity radio marti-
McGraw due to the lion of Zimbabwe being the only black
Russian on the planet, skirt around the muletide,
spruce up your glass colon, where a mere comma doesn't
stop the bleeding, for an appointment please squat in
the street. Quit your grinnin' or drop your linen
because the friends at channel eight are watching
Westinghouse watch you are the church, I am the
steeple open it up and see all the people fighting
with margarine moustaches and machete-wielding Moors,
who if victorious at the Battle of Tours would've set
up a bowling alley in Amsterdam where the freshly
beheaded faces would knock down freshly pruned legs,
cut above the kneecaps, STRIKE. Three little figs are
mine, I eat them all the time, to feel the things I
shouldn't, and to flap the wings I couldn't. Do you
understand rhythm as it's crawling along your spine?
Can you drink Burmese-produced champagne as a dead-again
Christian falls from the sky? It's rainin' Satan. Do
you understand granite as you grab it with your right
hand cuz you fucked up tryin' to fly? If you were
a hundred monkeys all rolled into one would you cut
your giant tail off or sweep through Wall Street? Crank
your soul up about six notches where the sun becomes
your tongue. Don't forget to leave me out of your
memory, I've had enough of your thoughtless dung.
Thunder of wit, tall, etcetera. I ran over my preacher
in my Buick Elektra cuz God came down and he talked to me
and opened the gates to set me free and I stain the
land from sea to shining sea and there once was a man
in a bucket, so God put a straw in to suck it, but
there also was someone who kicked the bucket and lived
to tell God to go FUCK IT. If you can comprehend
polyrythmic murder to the tune of ignorance is bliss,
you know there will never be a critic who will
ever be qualified to critique this.

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