hugo-o-mungo!
Seven syllables
Five syllables
Seven syllables
Clap,
Clap,
Clap
X
How!
X
Bulkily trollumphing, my attention span lurks near the well being of self consciousness, drinking deeply the heady vapours. Springing forth the beeping is obsolescence in fortitudedness, leemingly puddleying along the road less travelled. Two els! TWO!!
Times sixteen! Without that the answer can no longer be deemed a question!!
X
Too many juices for one evening to contain.
X
Baldness grips the hearts of men, boiling hooves and snouts in my stomach. This amount won’t even be enough to buy me a hat in time for a comb fight.
X
Darkness abounds,
There’s spit on the ground,
Germs all around that whales run. . .
a foot race?
X
Rhymes are for suckers and thyme is some sort of herb. I’ve never used it so I can only assume that it is also for suckers.
X
The pages slip by so fast sometimes that even Blake Savage with Rip Foster’s help couldn’t describe the anguish it can cause.
Slow down!
They baconed at me, salting my gourmet wounds with oily frying pan phrases. Didn’t you know that to make the burning of your words more slow and manageable your pen must first be wrapped in tin foil of discontent and pre heated with Iambic Pentameter? Leaving it in at 350 for an over extended metaphor.
X
Lights out, time for another fuse ridden memory to help stare through my reflection in the blackened glass carapace.
X
Life here?
A starving man with a dirty handful of rejected quarters,
glassy eyed,
bitterly engaged in a staring competition
with the chips that refuse to fall where they may.
A man in an SUV
constantly digging a knife into his gut,
complaining to the gas attendant that there’s
too
much
blood.
She’s a slooowww drinker.
X
WHO SAYS I CAN’T USE THIS CHAINSAW? THEY’RE BOTHERING YOU TOO AREN’T THEY?
X
Do you need justification?
Writing this is garbage and a strike looms warm and fragrant in tomorrow’s newspaper.
Enjoy that.
X
Languidly crush into sleep
furiously relaxing in the tormented comfort of
the scathing laziness of pillows.
Razor-like cotton balls.
The Fury
.
.
.
rests.
X
Five syllables
Seven syllables
Clap,
Clap,
Clap
X
How!
X
Bulkily trollumphing, my attention span lurks near the well being of self consciousness, drinking deeply the heady vapours. Springing forth the beeping is obsolescence in fortitudedness, leemingly puddleying along the road less travelled. Two els! TWO!!
Times sixteen! Without that the answer can no longer be deemed a question!!
X
Too many juices for one evening to contain.
X
Baldness grips the hearts of men, boiling hooves and snouts in my stomach. This amount won’t even be enough to buy me a hat in time for a comb fight.
X
Darkness abounds,
There’s spit on the ground,
Germs all around that whales run. . .
a foot race?
X
Rhymes are for suckers and thyme is some sort of herb. I’ve never used it so I can only assume that it is also for suckers.
X
The pages slip by so fast sometimes that even Blake Savage with Rip Foster’s help couldn’t describe the anguish it can cause.
Slow down!
They baconed at me, salting my gourmet wounds with oily frying pan phrases. Didn’t you know that to make the burning of your words more slow and manageable your pen must first be wrapped in tin foil of discontent and pre heated with Iambic Pentameter? Leaving it in at 350 for an over extended metaphor.
X
Lights out, time for another fuse ridden memory to help stare through my reflection in the blackened glass carapace.
X
Life here?
A starving man with a dirty handful of rejected quarters,
glassy eyed,
bitterly engaged in a staring competition
with the chips that refuse to fall where they may.
A man in an SUV
constantly digging a knife into his gut,
complaining to the gas attendant that there’s
too
much
blood.
She’s a slooowww drinker.
X
WHO SAYS I CAN’T USE THIS CHAINSAW? THEY’RE BOTHERING YOU TOO AREN’T THEY?
X
Do you need justification?
Writing this is garbage and a strike looms warm and fragrant in tomorrow’s newspaper.
Enjoy that.
X
Languidly crush into sleep
furiously relaxing in the tormented comfort of
the scathing laziness of pillows.
Razor-like cotton balls.
The Fury
.
.
.
rests.
X
posted by bazooka radio at 9:59 AM
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