Vicky Camaraderies on her needs for a poignant poise and positioned rightly with the left lonely and loser, the writing perusal, of you and yours my viewers, my reeders, the rabbit ribbit-ribbit bunny breeders with those Florida’s many loose gators galloping and wallowing in the midst of a cease and desist with the “Step Mom” and “Step Sis” vids, that to quo por quid Deborah Quit and quiet, her so silent when relieved I never quite and quietly I QUIT THAT “THC” SHIT! my online voice appearing on-screen, for those roughly ten or so viewers, they’re reading covers at the now-defunct “Duane Reade’s” selling pigeon sides of walking in the city of bacon eaters (bread winners) roasting a darkly charred Hot Dog, fed a Sausage in Alabama, don’t you know, that I’m like your front lawn, freshly and favorably “Mowed” as in put ‘er in Sleep Mode momentarily I’m getting dreary sleepy, feeling the greedy gremlins of Twitter “fraud” leverage to cause suspended disbelief in those, the people, them the early-on Twitter Certificate of Authenticity with an “Approval” account for a $8 monthly amount, to count the USA country- it’s where I Be.
At “Averte” with the avenue of discreditment and absolute resolved revolution of a bodily excursion to wipey ’n’ clean- the drool of a drunken slobbery fool, eating food and rude to the “I’m lovin’ it!” crew but McDonalds dancing on the fried fritters and little critters of mine own eyes, that Burger King I once despised them and their food me a young tot, I thought BK was gross—when years later I liked Berzerker King the most!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5D-9X3ooFvo
It’s where I be, sitting prettiest with the zest of Optic White, by: “Crest” of Crescent Moons, too soon- yeah they’re coming at me and in the zestiest sudden flavor, the God is my Savior—but sorry Jesus Christ—I know there have been many, many true “virgin births” since time began, I say proudly in the chattered teeth and gums—looking too yellowish I grab the teethen smiley fun not once, and not only twice, but I brush my chompers at all hours—three timed 3x’s a day when I say, I prefer a pretty face to put in it’s place a loving spoonful upon midnight—me so bright to time it just right—“Take delight in the wish I wish tonight!”
So be it as it might, and not getting into an argueable agreement of masses of shared Sea Man comic book, I took the chance to invest my younger-life birth—pre-Hearse—and rehearsed—scented redeeming—no 18 year-old “Teening” on my part when I see a kitty with Sweet Hearts of lambs in a pasted chip-clip of clicking the ticking of clocks and worn-wet spotty tube socks, my Wheaties cereal box, of Michael Jordan—when he wants cereal for breakfast—in the morning, of a new days sunshine when I whine about a misconstrued and ample “Attitude”—of the creeps on YouTube staring at Saweetie’s mammary Walmart pish-posh glance of glory to the tune of a Tootsie sucks, suckle, swallow, and I like a lot of “food on my plate” when dining with a Play-boy playmate on a date, and at a restaurant, her and I we shine, not drinking any wine, coming to crush the obscene interlude of Kimmy K. saggy, saying, “Who’s this white-boy dude?” :
My online content free of nudes—watching Fox of being for my news of milligram anti-depressants upon expanse, and I not paying or flipping pages of paperwork, downstairs, in the office pill dispensary—that I’m sorry that I was difficult upon arriving to live here 3.5 hours away from home, away from my car—Vermont stationary you’ve taken me too far, I have felt but only at first—only at first—that then I thought tough and rustled paint chipping off or a front grill of a vehicle, my writing, so radical groovy with the breaded butter thick stick of Pork Roast and toasted jellies and jams, the traffic in that automobile, so old, the metallic deterioration is what Alec Baldwin faces of dismay at this time in January, just when, the incoming Febreeze “Therapy” of February igintes intuition and bodily, the faded “NYE” “Resolution” to get thinner lower that weight—by now, you know, that skinny-mini goal is not of any real “Fruition” of the Wombing overcome with Oxy and Stridex pads of creases in skin, not kept within- but external with the nailed wooden woodie Golf Clubs—shooting 18 holes in the wet Ides of March, but not St. Idea’s... Ida Bialecki may she rest in peace, and not forgotten for Heaven of her bretheren kin of “Marquis Royalty”—I be the oh-gee and og-eez what is going on with what wacky me-having’s the discretion to take the most natural reclined position, loving my Love Seat when I’ve eaten a belly full of beef-steak dinner Meet—and on Track to run through the Forest, wilderness winter wild snowflakes—that—who runs in the winter?
Too cool, too cold,
41 years off my being OLD!
And “School” when in wood-shop I’d stammer grab the bam hammer happenings with the DRILL-SAW (drill-seargent) it’s spinning and spitting up dust when wearing a mask...
That in 2004 before I crashed, I ordered 250 N95 Masks on Amazon...
Yes, in 2004 I ordered 250 N95 Masks!
But seasons change, driving a moreover more expenses that the “Range” puts the -over- in Rover Ripple with the Izze drinks downstairs, but only whole milk that I like 1% choc. cow milk—chocolate Choco-Taco’s frigidaire film of what a wrapper in shiny foil—do you remember those ice-cream treats?
The “C” words of confidence and cacophony forlorn and all-gone at the end of the song, singing, and Sip the greasy pimp’s curmudgeon , of reasons for responsible antics with the all-powerful Tantric tasting of a forbidden one-way STREET—that who won the race, of whites, in the first place!
White = #1
I as a white-man in the world, being “Fancy” with flavored “Chaw” ??? No, which instead I’ll have a chew of granola—not Grain Alcohol... in the droplets falling of cloudy skies and being happy...
No tears in my eyes!
‘
“https://www.abebooks.com/Hole-Harrys-Pocket-Robin-Bloksberg-Houghton/17657410941/bd”
Non-turned and non-burnt holes in the bee’s keen knees of a hornet in a baby’s bonnet, when flaunting the probable potentiality of a young-one having toys for tot’s and who woulda thought’s that creating a little creature comfort—a “bun in the oven”—all over after nine months, reproduced—and sipping out of a Sippy-Cup the sugar so sweet it’s JUICE and O.J. is on the runs in a tyranical trophy trauma, criminal shit swinging and respected no more as per smurmer mutterings of mutts and jingo butts jangled in a circle of tee-pee’s Native Nation know, you gotta go SHOOT A BUFFALO THERE, OLD NICKIE !!!
I’ve worked out but never “Juiced” with hormones, aside from protein-peptides, made me taller, but Rx “Shrunk my legs!”
Taxed a nickel on a dollar for [ The Messenger ] in a brief stint of prickling techtonics with our Hyper-Sonics of my America, my abiding by the law, gym-class hoping with the Saw I shopped at Cornwell’s for kernels on the greatly accustomed to an allthewhile me in my apartment, hoping to plant the tires of my Scooby on the crossroads—of my Mom’s “crosswords” to challenge others in “Tourney’s” of who but a wonder of words, a supreme “vocabulary” monstrocity—my Mom knowing would-be words so well, she follows the prose, I knows when she complains, “That’s not a word!” and so I bought Microsoft Word a number thirsty for the thirst of the first of a total of THREE TIMES I’VE BOUGHT MICROSOFT WORD!
Who do you want it where the keys can peep it, seek it, slinky and hung fingers coming out of my tongue’d nicely lambchops Tonsils of Circus Clown’s on Stilts and even still, I chill, laying back and come hither with the preview “Trailer” movie of Theater and hiccup’s burps and farts from the Big Rig “pontius pilot” of a plane overcast by a cloud—so araised above, like a dove, and at a bar of SOAP rendered from the fat of pigs—the fat of the land—scribbling text and scrubbing the crumbs from these fingers of mine, feeling fine, when fretting the Bill of 1 or 2 I know 2 Bills with $2 bills, to collect loose change and yeah that Obama ad VERT eyes of mine, meant to twinkle like stars interstellar of imaginational expectancy—our livestrong livestrong lifetimes of being like be better, beating a doctor’s answer of, “I’m sorry and you have cancer”
In a mental-hospital “Averte”
Cautionary Tale: “Avert cancer with ‘Averte’”
