hey guys, here's more nonsense for a world full of it...and beauty!
utopia is myopia is purple people bologna-ia … or not!
or! Not! Not or! or! Or!
flamingos and marigolds around rose bush strangeholds, I once saw you young-like and fair, into the apple orchard with a pair of pistols and William Tell in your heart
Hey guys, so I started a new series (if you want to call it that) called 'nonsense files,' and it basically is to me as a writer as just jamming and playing music for fun is to a musician. Jam writing? I sure hope not, but I'll be posting a little snippet from the files every now and again for your pleasure. They're pretty silly, so suck it, I guess. Dig!
in the ruby room of such doom and gloom, Count Monte Cristo drank some Crisco and let himself loose in the Disco
now we wear ugly terrariums on our heads to renounce the evil ways of religious practices of the seventeenth century
Here is the last installment about poetry that is not alive!
ghost poetry: Kayla
Kayla in the yard with September grass graying
the angel in the dream
screams
and
oh
victory to now undo the song of sun of sun so fu sun of su nfos fu nsuf ofns usn fs u nf so fu sno fun
sos fufnsos sofnsosn sosnfons fons fos fnsofnsof
ghost poetry: lovers
lovers say hello in dreams
walking on their heads
the ghosts in the lane amidst
Sunday sun sun sun
nnnnnn nnn n n n n n n
nnn n n
ghost poetry: silent fade 3
she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sing and he sings and she sings and he sings and she sings and he sings an d sh e si ng s a nd h e si n g
s
ghost poetry: telephone
the telephone rings in the dream to wake the king
and he sleeps on top of the world
and the sun says to the stars that they must kindly sing too
Hello creeps, I'm finally back. A lot's happened, or not happened, but let's just say I'm ready to blog again. The death of this blog has been inevitable, and I've been searching for ghosts, so now it is time for rebirth. Dig!
ghost poetry: willem
this is not a poem. willem is dead.
he tells us that life is a dream, that he is the dream king, that
he’s waking up.
he tells me this is not a dream, then sings, then fades
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