Saturday, June 23, 2012

Stop swashing your fucking buckle, or, Mr. Sandman bring me a dream hold the police



Don't you hate stanzas. 
Why I sport shorts. 
I'm the walking dude.
No gasoline. Bath salts, light these.
It's a teeth grinder.   
I can see all the world in pulp battles.
Rhymes are crimes. 
I vomit tomato soup in your general direction.  
Juiblex is a vomiting möbius.
Oh where oh where have those fish crackers GONE.
Danno, murder one. 
Anti-pachycephalosaurs --
Midnight mountain handclapping I will be.
Clap or clap not, there is always your rotten core.
-- welcome to thunderdome.
We're gonna need a bigger bowl. 
That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. 
Fried arterial shocks, yum. 
I am Albino, you wish to see me inquisition your Spain.
Your eyes are anticlimactic as your brain --
Tra la la la, yawn.
-- the discouerie of a supernaut's frozen bravado fifty proxies too late.
Fifty shots, none on target.
Matthew Hopkins, in the library, with the red-hot thought.  


We now return you to your regularly scheduled Peanuts reruns, pentagrams of blood holding the jackal's truth, Frost & Fire, booze, & the letter Q.

P.S. Go wish Zizou bon anniversaire before he cracks your chest open.

8 comments:

ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Cheers!

I agree with you, R.G. (Whatever it is that you said.)
~

Beach Bum said...

No gasoline. Bath salts, light these.

Bath salts my butt, its the first wave of zombie infections.

Tom Harper said...

I hate to be the grammatical nitpicker, but "stop buckling your fucking swash" would be more accurate.

S.W. Anderson said...

Come on, Randal, you're not fooling anyone. This is a bad translation of some Croatian contest rules.

susan said...

Don't you hate stanzas. 
No gasoline. Bath salts, light these.
Rhymes are crimes. 
Oh where oh where have those fish crackers GONE.
Midnight mountain handclapping I will be.
We're gonna need a bigger bowl. 
I am Albino, you wish to see me inquisition your Spain.
-- the discouerie of a supernaut's frozen bravado fifty proxies too late.

Why I sport shorts. 
It's a teeth grinder. 
I vomit tomato soup in your general direction.
Danno, murder one. 
Clap or clap not, there is always your rotten core.
That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. 
Your eyes are anticlimactic as your brain --
Fifty shots, none on target.

I'm the walking dude.
I can see all the world in pulp battles.
Juiblex is a vomiting möbius.
Anti-pachycephalosaurs --
-- welcome to thunderdome.
Fried arterial shocks, yum. 
Tra la la la, yawn.
Matthew Hopkins, in the library, with the red-hot thought.  

It seemed that rearrangement based on font styles might help me decipher this puzzle and I was right. It was Miss Scarlet in the ballroom with a rope.

Lisa Golden said...

Have you been into the bath salts by any chance?

Randal Graves said...

if, besuretodrinkyourovaltine.

BB, I don't have a taste for human flesh, though, just onion rings.

tom, poetic license never expires.

SWA, no, Serbian sport, Macedonian meet, Turkish tournament.

susan, bzzzt. The Towering Slab doesn't have a ballroom, just asbestos.

lisa, I'm just high on life, man.

Demeur said...

So with all the blood being squeezed out of turnips these days does that mean your fav sport will be pay per view?