Nothing like drone music to loosen a latch and wake up this beast, i.e. boy. i.seem to enjoy my job as I cajole a thousand tasty thoughts out like casserole or cajun chicken, but not a chicken that's been caged and made to sit in that enclosure all panicked and stricken. Free range is all the range, and anything other only invites rage and anger. Who wants to see any animal suffer? Being fed into a crusher. I'm fed up with being fed bull. Shit, for supper. I'd rather eat the pussy of a good woman. And I'm not fussy, it could be any old hussy's tushy getting sucked like a Slush Puppie. Lush lips locked around lush lips of the woman with trust issues. Of Trust Magazine. What about the magazine rounds fired by this magnificent penis? Time to take your vaccination. A few shots flew like injected flu shots. And that's some Trew news, subscribe here!! True? I bend the truth, leave your head spinning like a centrifuge. I refuse to have centred views. I'd rather leave a sprawl of splendor for you to venture through. An adventure for your NG friends to surrender to. Experimental schmooze of serenity, a remedy of extremity, a means of being menacing without being given the death penalty. We can't rule out therapy. That beast, i.e. boy needs therapy. Psychosomatic mind, cycle of magick, blind, flicking flippant through a winding Bible of agitation. An intermittent Walter Mitty, smitten with words and language, swimming with verbs and plankton, plangent. A sanctum of abandonment. Swamped with distractions, which must be broken down into fractions and extracted, then left on the embankment. Thoughts of a basket case off on a tangent no time for pause of breath - My cause of death will be holding breath. Literally. Like releasing a Monarch butterfly of holistic repression through artistic expression.
Writers block? Tonight it's Not a problem. And precisely why we've not given this guy a nightly spot on our controversial show - Tonight With Spock. Who sadly is no longer with us. That's why it's considered controversial, like a celebrity mangled in a trashed convertible car filled with burnable fuel. All because he didn't turn the right way on the dual carriageway, the fool. I joke I keed, like a downloader that pretends he can't seed torrents, of Jack Torrance movies. Jack Torrance is a character you idiot! Yeah? That's what he wants you to think, then when your back is turned. BAM! Gun butt to the back of the head. Cargo crate in waiting... Pending... Buffering... Waiting for a minute to pass before changing to another video, on Vimeo. Veni, vidi, vici. VVV like one giant Big Mac, but sharper like Karl Pilkington in a suit he just found out of a skip on The Moaning of Life. But you only get that kind of luck if the omens are right. If a door shuts then a window might open and let in the tiniest glimmer of light. To hide that frightening grimace that gives off a sign of mental illness. Not that I'm worried by that. Got to use your weaknesses and use them as tools to reinforce your strengths. Take your weaknesses and bludgeon them in front of the 50 innocent bystanders. If they are innocent, why were they standing idly by? They could have been providing the vital ingredients to saving my life. Mistakes have been made, risks have been taken, and you're sadly mistaken if you think I'm pisstaking. Pissed at taking the vials of urine to the hospital. Barge past the fat ventriloquist dummy. I swear something spoke out when I walked. Like a tape recorder inside picking up every sound like a wet sponge. Absorbing all the minor details.
Long endurance. Endure these rants about rats and ants that we were scared and ran from. Peed in our pants from the blunt force trauma of ebaumsworld. Its scarier living in his own world, alone, where the drones are known to comb the area. Searching for the malaria-infested to place em in quarantine. Getting demonised for using Demonoid. Get your ass kicked for using Kickass Torrents. Get executed for spending the Night with Florence Gale. Being hunted to the ends of the Earth by Eartha Kitt and David Hasselhoff. We don't need this shit and hassle in our collective bodily region. Our head just drooped from tiredness, yet the fingers remain tireless and aspire to keep this fire lit until the last few embers expire. Sitting in the morning light yawning as he writes prolonging his plight. Its wrong but he's right to stay awake and fight back the urge to call it a night. That's what he's like, the other half of this brain inside of his mind, which refuses to sleep and sign off from grinding. So while he is still shining like Jack Torrance and spending the night with Florence Gale. He can't fail. Except on those school exams, but we never placed high demands on ourselves back then. We could never understand why GCSEs would impress these employers that employ us with intent to destroy us. Kill joy and annoy the young boy that had dreams. Spoil our lives, teenage pride and our self-esteem. But the bullies they pushed and they pulled us with pulleys, and Nietzlawe withstood what he could as he turned it to good, burned up the wood, learnt how to squirm out the mud and use words like a gun to spray dirt on the cunts. Some scars never heal they say, but right now we feel too amazing to let bad experiences get in the way. So let's get the fucking show on the road, we're ready to play.