I made you & now I take you back

Remade, actually. Writers are blockheads, & when thus blocked, often resort to outright theft, but nothing's new under the sun anyway so rewriting minnesanger embroidery in crude lines is fine, dude's been dead for ten centuries, he won't mind but I do due to a terrible awful-nesse, therefore, in its absence [ed. note: de rien] go on & pocket the deserved remonstrance next to your empty wallet. I think I had something else of unimportance to post about [ed. note: our slow burn apocalypse, still not evitable, sorry, Fred], but the Esoteric Order of St. Drogo has forbidden me to reveal it. No, I just plum forgot, had you fooled for a moment, I did. Plums are an underrated fruit, & I beseech thee contemplate that while I see if the blocks are now breakable like Legos or temporarily permanent as the Andes.

Darklordy, darklordy, look who's forty

Fenriz says age ain't nothing but a number to a drummer.



The troo kvltist's troo kvlt.



Not right now, but the day is young.



Crustaceous (is this our TV theme song?).

Paint the devil on the wall

Starting penning a bunch of razzmajazz about the consuming impulse aping vague symbols (linking arms, fiesta policing) encountered in passing by the finest corporate functionaries over water cooler gossip &/or a porn surf drive-by, but since that was a)simply an excuse to post ye olde school thrash & b)because I find civilization's slow burn apocalypse funny, erase et voilà.

Coda [ed. note: Zeppelin rules]: look, campus fuzz, I've worked essentially each & every Saturday for two decades, when I say we're open, we're open, so drop the technocrat procedure about your TPS report stating nothing is, post-bird, & send a truncheoned polyester to unlock the gates of knowledge, the lobby in the cant of the future pepper-sprayed.

Park place

Reach out & thorn someone.

Yes, leaf, it does seem that life floats on by.

Sedimentary, my dear Watson.

Gourd gored.

Take that, Samhain.

Erosionous zone.

Sticking point.

Free fell.

Shave & a haircut.

Accidentally flashed, thus, more color than the naked eye.

My kind of sky.

Monkey balls.

Social climbers.

Someone's been eating like a damn hell ass king.

A bustling hedgerow.

Squirrels are experts in shaming. Next time, victuals.

I swear on this book of carpet samples.

Altar of sacrifice.

Pantheists.

Fungus among us.

Hippie.

Centipede.

Medusa.

Sky high.

Dead leaves & the dirty ground.

Gimme shelter.

Poke.

Here, fishy fishy.

Green machine.

You suckers are determined, I'll give you that.

Sideshow Bob's distant cousin.

St. Francis of the Squirrels says, all right, follow me to the parking lot.

Cheap laughs beats trenchant commentary beats scissors beats cheap laughs

 
 


Well that's settled.

To the sea, to the sea

Only heavily-powdered powertrips gigging for the newest paper thrill, their caffeinated porn-surfing functionaries, & the feds populate the interwebs the week of Football Day, whilst the rest of us swim for the newest [read: the usual suspects] zone-out trick in the gutter that lieth twixt panels that might or might not be the previously mentioned kind of aw yeah baby, so, why am I here?

The end.

Bombs? We don't need no stinkin' bombs

Suffocates efficiently as it preserves post-apocalyptic victuals those cans of cream of mushroom won't last forever. Snow, the other death from above.

Yeah, I know. I was hoping to sell out buy in, but I just don't have the marketing chops of The Big O. A recurring trope, yours truly as lazy.

To rectify video-lesse-nesse:



Play it loud or I'll snow on your house.

Let me stand next to your fire

Stuck on the desk extra (legit, this time, hang in there, comrade of the Peonage), wishing I wasn't but it's fine for now, for later, lake effect for darkthroning -- Thor, it better -- now, the below, in lieu of start-stop-discard #604, worst photo essay ever, but I like fire, look for a metaphor or four, 'tis there, or not, in the grand red giantism scheme, doesn't matter but a preview.

Shake, yratl, & yrolle

(Mostly) off the interwebs yesterday only to (mostly) find out that there's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, & given that Bloomers is the firstest Lord Mayor ever to care about dirt, he's more than welcome to take the Towering Slab's guitar army of leaf blowers. You're Chuck Mosley, you independent, you.

It's not that I don't care, only that I've nothing to add. Mosquitoes occupy the bloated, undead flesh that is the state's shambling corpse, kept vaguely upright through the darkest necromancy, of course it's gonna scratch like Lee.

Was an illusion

With the first draft of The Paper From Hell: The Sequel having been not-polished in supplication to the Mountain of Shrug from where it can look down upon ye scoffers not-trembling,

let there be rawk.



Who's using who?

Paralyzed by inaction

Particular glints, paired, remind. Of what,
I don't know, & it's driving me nuts,
divine center of I don't know what,
thus, awake, among other stimuli.

Shadows taller than our soul (Zeppelin's never cliche
to this Parmastani man, so shut your piehole). Photos frozen
in order of darkness, so why this is clearer than the next,
the auncient art of digital divination will spill, perhaps.

No? So tell me something.
This way is as good as any,
says the shrug.

Radiant addict.
Maybe I'm spineless.
Head full of crap.

Being & everythingness.
Ghosts, all of you,
save -- to be continued. I lied. The end. Amen. fin