Seed the America

read the fap-pages
and it'll sap rages
to the gap stages.

See the comparative
run afloat
I need to
rock the boat

That's why I'll talk about:

sperm,
toxic paste
nuclear,
is a crazy taste

In the hopes you'll see
and trace.
The pattern of waste
in this maniac race.

insanity is it? insanity is not being able to stand

or wheelchair to alternatives
and its wrong to shoot men sniperwise in the foreheads
because brains swell up, blood flows awkwardly, and the veins PUNCTURE
thought processes are INCINERATED
yes

cruelty in these lies that you try to shove
but you cant
cause i see
i see you
time to bounce
to a beat even if it's straightforward
straightedge; sometimes it's better

hallelujah and the crazy man is scared
how his friend the crow fared
the fox slyly pulled on the trigger.
this i know?

color of her eyes? neon.

be.

be be be a dream
maybe if i scream i'll be a human being
and maybe if this tension wraps i'll loose the springs

the voltage is high but i'm alive and i'm screaming
my rights my am i right insight to the light
and pound pound pound

horsepower horsepower horsepower
powercry for us
it dosen't matter
free your mind
and you'll know
freedom fight to fym
free our minds
one loop track to one loop hack
play play play over
brain material wash on the surface
blare blair witch
and we'll know.

Bacon

Slam poet on a slam home skillet.
But where's the home bacon?

If you add possesive
She might think digressive
Add a my to the sly
And it's all wrong for me
It's all gone in the hidden tree

Slam bacon on the skillet and it sizzles
So good for you and me

Chol-est-er-ol and it's good for you and me
Crunchy and salty munch on it for we
But the old starving man can't see
The old homeless woman can't be

Cholesterol for you and melt's like cholesterol
For me.

Neon Girl Paramour: "When She Was Bad..."(1.0)

I

He was a very bloody man. Stout really. He sat at the bar on the end of broken dreams. He had a very grotesque moustache, on his hand a red rash, inscribed with the harvest of twenty-seven. On his eyelash a bubble, a fiery rain drop of accomplished misery. A bubble that drooped to the dirty porcelain floor. Drinking his drink he ensnared a wink from the neon girl.

Temptress in blue and green, standing on a dancing floor and quite lean. She lay on a pillow of seams. The seam which tore apart and blew in the wind, and a flying rind, which carried the smell of tangerines. A raven toying with humans. The stout man sighed and looked back at his drink.

"Mr. Higs isn't it?" the bartender asks.

"Yes it's Tork Higs; Tork Jonathan Higs" a reply.

Neon girl flies and moans, at her look the drones. Oh no! Another one gets blocked from freedom. More floating comes and this time the temptress smirks. A sweep of air and she sits next to Higs.
"Hello" a voice grating on the chalkboard. A complementary voice for a complementary woman.

Silence in its own nature awkward. A warm fire on a cold winter night. She moves her head to better regard Higs.

"I SAID hello" her tone enveloping the irritating quality.

"Learn to say goodbye" Higs retorts. Another smirk in the water. A dilute water concentration with more muddy mud than mud can handle. Higs, the tortured, can see clearly. Higs who is picked on and stuffed into dusty old closets, and eaten by the trashy vixens inhabiting his life.

She deposits an incredulous look and leaves. This time her smell is all weird, her hair frazzled, and her drones dispersed. The mass of the trickster has been delayed, and the bass of the music has been led astray. The new hot thing fades away. And within the circle a new stone lays. Not for Mr. Higs. Mr. Higs lays in the bar and stays with his bay of pigs. He sits and drinks. Collects many winks. And in his limbo he thinks.