20080826
Kottonmouth Kings, assholes
The repetative beginning from their song called Sub-Noize Rats, that goes "sub noise rats, sub noise rats!" on the album Rolling Stoned sounds just like Word Attack by the Adolescents. To me anyway. I think they ripped it off, I thought they were quite original til now. maybe im wrong but i wanted to post this before i forget cause im doing homework. THOSE ASSHOLES. it is a decent song though hahah. OI!
20080819
She
the lady
she Is to me a smile
in the downpour of
r a i n
smooth fingers that
bring warmth, enveloping
closure despite the storm
unspoken, Resist
for to release this tension
would be too much to bare
she Can
sporting a simple glance
tantalize lava from the
stone.
she Does
remain stellar, silent, impermeable.
the mystery of my heart does
remain clandestine.
20080815
musings, bullshit
I wish, oh yes I do
Wish that I could make you see
Wish that I could disappear
Hours of speculation
Have led me to believe that it is I
Who will plague you
Each moment that we spend smiling
Together
Will be desecrated by you,
Missing me
Alone
Where are my angels now?
As I stare into the gray
Pit; void, eternal entrapment.
Vicious chains like dogs
With icy cold teeth they bind,
Constrain
Torment.
Albeit I try to face the demons
Armed with an open heart
Auspicious temperament, suddenly sanguine.
Blood flows from open wounds
Fighting to heal, feeble attempts peel
Like dead skin.
Dying to be restored. Then,
Like grotesque volcanoes I bleed my
Shortcomings, fabrications written in a flash
Swallowed into the flames of nonacceptance.
Burnt like devil books.
Smoke rises from the sullen
Ash
Surrenders to the wind,
The iron fist has been heard with a thud.
A life wasted.
Wish that I could make you see
Wish that I could disappear
Hours of speculation
Have led me to believe that it is I
Who will plague you
Each moment that we spend smiling
Together
Will be desecrated by you,
Missing me
Alone
Where are my angels now?
As I stare into the gray
Pit; void, eternal entrapment.
Vicious chains like dogs
With icy cold teeth they bind,
Constrain
Torment.
Albeit I try to face the demons
Armed with an open heart
Auspicious temperament, suddenly sanguine.
Blood flows from open wounds
Fighting to heal, feeble attempts peel
Like dead skin.
Dying to be restored. Then,
Like grotesque volcanoes I bleed my
Shortcomings, fabrications written in a flash
Swallowed into the flames of nonacceptance.
Burnt like devil books.
Smoke rises from the sullen
Ash
Surrenders to the wind,
The iron fist has been heard with a thud.
A life wasted.
20080814
tangled up in excretion
You know that saying, "The best thing since sliced bread," that people so often use to indicate that something is really groovy?
I think it's blasphemy. Sliced bread is not all it's cracked up to be. As I was sitting on the beige seat of relief - getting to the core of said seat's true purpose, I glanced to the right at my sink counter top and saw the Softsoap dispenser there. Elegant - a sleek, palpable neck that sang to me as a crooning coyote would in my wildest fantasies. Dare I say, much resembling a swan's essential beauty in simplicity... A container that would surely fly straight to the gates of heaven if completed with a swan's wondrous wingspread. A device whose suction straw extends down into the depth of her belly - surrounded by a sea of mildly yet invigorating fragrant hand elixir. With an easy, inter-connected and blatant push of the head she ejects her nectar into your expectant palms. Even the surface of contact is chizled to give you the most comfortable of finger-exertion excursions. She will never fail you - nor will she lie or cheat. And she always comes, if this is an issue for you. Just make sure to fill her up every once in awhile.
Okay, liquid soap can't provide a carbohydrate encampment for my cold cut fixin's or other sandwhichesque concoctions. But would you really want your grimy ass hands making a fucking sandwhich? No, not unless you paid a recent visit to the Vixen of Antibacterialites.
And, game-set-match shit right here, I can CUT MY OWN FUCKING BREAD. I have knives, I have hands for holding still the loaf. I have the tools and the knowledge required to complete the mission. And it wouldn't even be sanitary without m'lady. Do you want to get sick and die? Of course you don't, this life is beautiful and full of endless possibilities. I am thoroughly disgusted by the colloquial panel of comparative discourse. But I have faith in my moisturization. I have truly believe in my heart that Jesus Christ used either Dial® or Softsoap®.
Stop using this fucking expression. It sucks. My new realization is, quite literally, the best thing since liquid hand soap. Believe it, you sick motherfuckers.
P.S. Wash your hands.
I think it's blasphemy. Sliced bread is not all it's cracked up to be. As I was sitting on the beige seat of relief - getting to the core of said seat's true purpose, I glanced to the right at my sink counter top and saw the Softsoap dispenser there. Elegant - a sleek, palpable neck that sang to me as a crooning coyote would in my wildest fantasies. Dare I say, much resembling a swan's essential beauty in simplicity... A container that would surely fly straight to the gates of heaven if completed with a swan's wondrous wingspread. A device whose suction straw extends down into the depth of her belly - surrounded by a sea of mildly yet invigorating fragrant hand elixir. With an easy, inter-connected and blatant push of the head she ejects her nectar into your expectant palms. Even the surface of contact is chizled to give you the most comfortable of finger-exertion excursions. She will never fail you - nor will she lie or cheat. And she always comes, if this is an issue for you. Just make sure to fill her up every once in awhile.
Okay, liquid soap can't provide a carbohydrate encampment for my cold cut fixin's or other sandwhichesque concoctions. But would you really want your grimy ass hands making a fucking sandwhich? No, not unless you paid a recent visit to the Vixen of Antibacterialites.
And, game-set-match shit right here, I can CUT MY OWN FUCKING BREAD. I have knives, I have hands for holding still the loaf. I have the tools and the knowledge required to complete the mission. And it wouldn't even be sanitary without m'lady. Do you want to get sick and die? Of course you don't, this life is beautiful and full of endless possibilities. I am thoroughly disgusted by the colloquial panel of comparative discourse. But I have faith in my moisturization. I have truly believe in my heart that Jesus Christ used either Dial® or Softsoap®.
Stop using this fucking expression. It sucks. My new realization is, quite literally, the best thing since liquid hand soap. Believe it, you sick motherfuckers.
P.S. Wash your hands.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
