No answers, just galavanting banter, and salamander rancour set to breathe in the decanter. Orangutan Komodo dragon shootout intervention by a zookeeper trainee, naive but well intentioned. Falling down, failing up, flail until propulsion. Hit the nail right on the hand tryna anchor the compulsions. Stigmata’d pinatas, post-spin doctors skimmed in a scrim with vinyasa, me casa: too Kafkaesque. Then that golden rodent had to grow wings and whispered pathogens into the swollen openings. Live from the iron-clad oxen of hope dithering hither thither with a withering periscope, shivering in frigid waters clutching fragments of boats, mirrors and smoke, or anything that dangles or floats, and this is growth? Or samsara off the lithium--the alabaster seems as absurd as the obsidian and as the greyscale melts into oblivion, we fibonacci notches in a mystery meridian like “1 step forward 1 step back, 2 steps forward, 3 back, 5 forward, 8 back, 13 forward, 21 back 34 forward…..”

V1 “I Could swear these rakes were strategically placed” He’d say, thievery claiming was a means to evade. He’d frame his bed of nails with the pressure treated balance beams of lack of better judgment labeled self victimization. These days? Eating off the enamel. Acquainted with leverage, trajectory of the handle, the language of the garden, complexity of the angles, and lessons from ample self directed trauma to the mantle. Example: being bogged in a stoicism chamber too long to disentomb appropriate sources of anger. And when they achieve the pinnacle of their self awareness, they seek to inflict damage on the very people you cherish. Blind to the whisper of piper, tines in the slipper lifts a soil sifter Right in the kisser, these middle finger dissertations are a young man’s game within The dome shaped infinity mirrors of age But how I was complicit in creating the conditions I so adamantly was wishing I hadn’t slipped in, And how do I console a hunting for goodwill that resulted in a garden tool shaft to the grill? Shit. (Hook:) Love yourself Stop hiting yourself Take care yourself Be good to yourself Forgive yourself Stop hitting yourself Stop hitting yourself Stop hitting yourself V2 Given an inch, I’ll take an ultramarathon, restraint in a mason jar, default on the bearer bonds. Bet the funny farm hot wiring a flux capacitor. The upshot is a most abrupt withdrawal of a catheter. Shit to propellers for an armchair traveller but Welcome to the tour of the sausage factory… Where the mud splashing is anything but subtle mastery. Where we grind past experience through culpability. Where we Reconcile maitri with accountability so ill at ease with the willingness to be sincere what with all the bees in the beard vaseline in the mirror, the fleas up in the cheerios, the dagger stares of yesteryears. We fester fears till the chest is clear; every lesson be a wisdom tooth extraction via bombardier. Taking self directed kindness for weakness till pride takes it’s egress and spinelessness is deep-sixed But how I was complicit in creating the conditions so thoughtlessly counter to the outcome of the mission? And how do I condition someone so willing to play the victim that they’re both worthy of love and the firmest versions of disciple? *hook* V3: A cycloptic monarch sounding off an out damn spot, with the internalizing rot of an exogenous shock and is the belaclava’d hangman still worthy of love? Crushed under that guilt, a pin-drop becomes a caber-toss. Maybe not. Maybe baby steps to a vacant plot lend a hand in picking off the borderland sticker shock. Taking solace in the multitudes contained: embracing Jack Napier to bolster Bruce Wayne is a serrated game. Nauseating is the pay to play--shadowboxing with saving grace to save face. Mediations between me myself and I confined together for life so often ends in a fight , over a portion of pie so Rarely cut into tris, granted some fun and games, now we’re all missing an eye. In the valley of rakes, all too easy to despise the manager, the exile, the fighter of fires But how was I conditioned into being this complicit with a critical erosion of a critical relationship And how can I start the conversation to go from unrequited tolerance to full reciprocation, arriving at a mutually agreed upon peace of mind. It can be brutal both inside and outside, inside and outside so all we can do is be kind all we can do is be kind and in time *Hook*

Verse 1: when you’ve got little more than gum and cigarette butts for agendas of the red rug The general consensus is your head is fulla bed bugs, young ensin: “don’t you wanna be large, and lemmiwink your gestations till they're calling you sarge?” Its shouldn’t be hard though that door may be stuck in ajar, it only acts as countermagic for the buffing of lard into a baffling ambergris sculpture of god, Slash spring mechanism for unremarkable plods, so applause is maybe maple syrup in the gas tank of a nervous steppinwolf’s wirling dervish. The fertile earnest hershel merchant’s got gerbils in the furnace which blur the purpose for the parking the Porpoise with a marketing performance. Not a foreman, more a tribal tortoise tryna find a silo for these orchids plowed by porches at the viacom asylum orgy. Hunger pains for something strange, tunnel from the numbers game, shovelling funnel cakes till the shovel stanks. Verse 2: Seein intra-Acrylic, finnin to Snip the pinna Recognition for still waters is seldom idyllic, still a Lazy-boy logician fixed in his quixotism will be fogging up the windows with the sticky syllogisms regardless if kingfishers read the stitched wing pigeon’s scribble screaming phoenix in definitive juxtaposition. And that’s A Double edged sword, but what isn’t? Many pawn the Hanzo just to find it’s Bedtime for Bonzo and as the venom trickles down a Reaganomic gongshow, its hard to jaunt to the bravado of your own bongos and this monolith you powdered with a phantom limb is Just a mannequin behind Enchanting mists, try your hand again. Another stab at the Hornets in the bonnet punching sob-sonnets with the serpentine borrowed yardstick. Windows Rattled by the gravy train passing by, so KPI’s get the stank lazy eye emaciated by safety-guide banter for the gander Turkey-baster-baby-anthems birthing Pantomimy standards… Over here necromancing scarabs in amber till I’m shanking every canvas in a masochistic tantrum Verse 3 Seeing literary pyrotechnics for yeti shepherds, levy pressures sketched into their Epigenetics Penny Heffer wolf headed spaghetti westerns, Lifelong Crises of identities getting Jessica Fletchered by the voices like bonobos on macs hacking the pentagon animorphing cobras into ladder rungs, shutterbugs flashing if you cut a rug, duck a lip sip the sludge from the scuttlebutt to shuttle up another echelon. Having pelicans coaching you like a peloton on how top the varmint autobaun with melodram. Ah! You came to see a plush landscape, well, all he paints is goat headed nuns smoking blunts at clambakes. The flexibility granted by anonymity is one of wanderlust abandon from the vanity of the hand that feeds, but if a monkey puzzle drops in the forest does it slap something gorgeous with no one there to enjoy it? Canvases is of grafted skin, holding life and limb, all work no praise turn brainy works of art to Grady twins. And to my siblings of this plateau, I doff the chapeau--fallen leaves undisturbed by afterglow

Gotta milk the chickens Whatchyoudoing? Tryna milk these chicken Out here tryna milk these chickens Check.. Verse 1: The 1 man psychodrama tragicomedy at the recreation centre not too many wanna see, The afterparty’s for pachyderms is at the haberdashery. If you’re not a pachyderm, it’s cool, you’re invited too. The Slovin Foppery’s the stuff of legends, The tap water that he’s suppin could probably cool your engines, and maybe your jets, I heard this thing called internet is great for feeling like your under a constant threat. Quiet as a first snowfall, frantic as a Nurse calls, Turpentine In nerf balls dispersed throughout the curtain call--got 6 million ways to call you on your bullshit but for aforementioned reasons I could not reach your pulpit--Dang… Throw some hoobastank on it. Butterfinger boomerang you can bank on it. Feudalist minus tutelage, “We’ve never seen a Rutabaga enthusiast so exuberant, but he ruined his. What happened?” ---- I was concentrated on milking these chickens What am I doing? Tryna milk these chickens Lets get out there, and milk the chickens Yea, put me in coach: ---- Verse 2: You gonna pull those pistys or is you Whistling dixie, Gonna unfurl the misty or you in it for a quickie, well We hornswaggled by a smorgasbord of media So sir, do you plan to buy these encyclopedias? Otherwise, I got places to be, hands to kiss, babies to shake, booties to quake, loonies to scrape, Sakoyas to shave into a toothpick city, and an angry mob to lead towards a lumber industry From a sandpaper house looking for something that tickles In a word full of poles, seeking somewhere in the middle In room fulla tubas, just wailin on this bugle till my flapjack dinner down at the golden griddle--MMM…. Feeling like ta dollop of butter under the covers, flustered frolick, on his collar: droplets of mustard, Nutter butter, fluffer nutters Nutrageous, been Nupin pa nub in all de wong paces on a regular basis--veteran afid, pedalling a gentle brand of loving kindness for yourself and neighbour, Aww yes! Everyone prepare to have their butts kissed, Beloved till they peep how repug his lunch is, Spit the rustic sputniks holding hints to the secrets of existence in an open fist: they are this: Bupkis.

V1 weaving baskets in the mountains, patrick duffy for a leg, feed disaster with them puffy poached eggs plus them hollandaise, collar frayed but faring well by the modern day colonoscopy carousel till hedon holidays--same story...wait.. “You say These Juicebags came and drained all communion wines in an effort to stay holy?”--Shesseat, I want that purple stuff till the girdle busts Off the curdled cuff, - just a squirt off the fertile bluff to Mallard backs. While the hour hand moves the masses shouting get along while the second hand is pouring out the bong--fuck--I was gonna drink that For the power to expose this whole shrink wrap, Thank god the ink shaft Is Linga lucid To a room full of player pianos cranking Yankee Doodle in a janky unison. Juicebags: cast flapdoodle lassoos. Subterranean, scaffolding step stools to the gallows V3 Juicebags got An Apothecary fulla comically false remedies for chronic echolalia and golf pencil envy--see what we do is: Breed pitbulls with shitzus, ratatoo trimmings and clippings into a witches brew guaranteed to improve your stick and move. Give the ol’ assimilated image some verisimilitude, so sayeth the the village news: a walk-in hyperbolic chamber with cycloptic observations for all constipated congregations Muska clad through your Stalingrad, mackerel slap a Gallahad they’re a gallon of laughs Reynolds wrap thinking caps for the balancing act. Matching agnosticism for the actual fact In the china store, tryna feeding laxatives to cattle its the matadors with cataracts cash them outside habada. Straws hanging out the gin in the bath this one is dedicated to a man named Shabaskis--JUICEBAGS.

Take it as it comes but adapt or die. A flock of walking paradoxes trying to atomize where the black and white satisfies do or die appetites the waking life seems more complicated than advertised. Easier to fake it till your take is actualized, pack a bag walk the walk until the pack decides, jerry rig a raft for a cherry sky and fraternize with every passerby till the disguise is rationalized. Every Lash batted ratified, every crash landing no longer canoblized. What aside, to Shark or shirk, to bark or smirk, or shall we start this work, bird for bird buddy. Paralysis of hypothalamus overcome by self-flatulating psychoanalysis-- caught up in the grand canyon of grandeur, oblivious to the lion’s head on the lanyard. Dining by gaslight pushing the graphite till raspite or glass pipe, well, allright. Just tryna get the facts right, dying to be made by something other than that shit from last night. Lust like ingrown hairs plucked by guilt Guilt like guts that bust buttons on film, Film on the gluttonous gills puffin until, The till gets rummaged like attila to nil--so what is real? I been asking that the whole nine on cloud six, shapeshifting tryna hold time. Dichotomize till the pigeon hole climb, or pimp the vertigo for the wobbly walk across a silver line. What is real what is real what is real Everything is nothing, all up for discussion, is you shuckin is you bluffin till your twelve o clock pumpkin? We carry on, merry as a swine in dung seven thirty feedin ff the flies that pile upon the currency, Only as Fertile as the flywheel momentum, heel shock stored and molded into pacifist emblems through Dwindling candles, and then some, drenched in torrential downpours till rent’s due and lent come. My consequences see me through narcoleptic hubris Like an electric shock blueprint when I’m en route to bamboozle the solenoid May heavy handed tongues succumb to rheumatoid. Survival skills duking out a passage through the void, galloping a Stallion in the autumn of troy I’m a Doggy Paddling battleship mapping out joy in hell or high water till land ho is something minor, and no decider. In defiance of divine compliance and liability until the equalizer…

As the rosy fingered dawn gently peaks through the shudders, he rises like a weed through city sequins of rubble to the in-flooding battery of chattery clutter, neurotransmitters barking like busy body number runners who need a break, but no foreseeable ETA--struggle Etched in each sequence of DNA. And though it often feels like He’s running in place, growth is fibonacci cloaked with the dagger of monotony, Or at least that’s the message on repeat as he heats the sands of time into the door of perception’s keys. But a meek stipend to make the cypher complete be enticing the beasts into survival by the rind of the teeth on enemy land, lurching through lugubrious REM overturned into a luminous libidinous Zen, when acceptance of perpetually turbulent shadow patterns brings a flicker of the lantern at the edge of the cavern. I know I’m slumberin, I sleep with my Mind wide open Moka Verse: (Just Listen)

Green enough to see the wisdom in a rookie move, blue enough to see the spectacles you looking through. Their rose tinted hue is Nothing to pussyfoot. I dream about em when I snooze through my afternoon trail for impiety, reviled by what’s inside of me, canning my survival meat, bedazzling revival teas. I tried to craft a pair of my own, got as far as beer goggles then I left it alone. Those are piling up in the closet taking the form of skeletons, whispering secrets of an inner critic’s embellishing--I Fell again chatting with an elephant in the prayer room, lit a flair to lure it away from the heirlooms. Something in the air looms Something in the telomeres Something through the generations reappears receiving repeated beatings from the hyenas I’m feeding, either I didn’t heed the beacons or the gene is receding In awe how you savour silver lined lemonade hemispheres as if the tumbler runneth over during hurricanes, Sprout Roses for the renegades even if it never rains, you stop to smell the scents that emanates and never build a fence even when a varmint penetrates your backyard. Vanguards of scrap yards leaving paths of glass shards--I stay slack jawed and Once again revise my flash cards You taught the volatile art of compartmentalization I forged a pine box in a vacant river basin, In the larva stage onslaught of precipitation, I drilled holes for air, counteracting the equation. Cause where was the fear toxin to go? I have not the storage space or the patience for Godot And as time tells of a reversal of roles, I share valuable tools I’ve acquired from the road Rough and tumble toddlers, cushioned by your plush carpeting still--we dumb quick to infantilize an architect, Generation ironic Bi product: pathologize dogged, surmise bondage for catharsis Intoxicated by our headShrinker tonics and a brisk guided walk through a chthonic demonic admonish any strong silent soprano Monoceros. “Preposterous, Where’s the monster’s Crib”, I can have faith and still worry about you and the sustained weeping wounds from wearing another’s shoes, I get em too. Since the twinkle in the crescent moon, It’s been a reciprocal wish for a Panoramic view, respect due--not trying to mansplain a manpain manscape but help dechlorinate the amcrays from the authentic. You can show a lake to a pegasus, but you can’t make him retain a therapist.

Long Into the Night: Are we just But a butterfly’s dream, bugs in amber paperweights Baoding balls in a Newtonian pendulum swing Laying awake to a bait and switch paper-chase while playing with our precious moments like cradling graves Till the resting place/dirt embrace, harmonizing dissonance till disengaged hence the Anton Chuguhr Resting face, Renew youth serpent snuff that ol’ skin In love with the rearview hence the rubbernecking with the never non-apologetic lolly-gag, poppin tags to circumvent the stop and frisk: molly-math scallywag, little time for a stop and chat Chair rocking back into the pitfall trap under the posh welcome mat Oh for one in a staring contest with the sun Digoro eyes, high beaming zika red from the jump Betel nut smile, set on a content imperfection Still reaching for adrenochrome for hypertension But why so go damn serious son--still guided by the winds of your expectation Any frayed yarn spun to be lauded and applauded getting robbed by the cogs in the inner monologuing And So it goes, good show for Tralfamadorians, What’s Good for the gander: anecdotes for anaconda coding Lets put this swan in motion Like its automotive Stop the meta-coasting rumination composting And the aftershave Macaulay Culkin And the confirmation bias seeing all as the opponent, Fine, I’ll just close my eyes and point, moving joints Assemble story lines in stop motion, cannonball the void X marks another Crossroad; I’m girding up the loins garlanded in erotemes and exclamation points So it goes Warm hands over Tarot card bonfires, it’ll be fine Mind on my marrow, anti-matter on my mind Mind over all the chatter is an Everest climb minus the sherpa, Puff pass to prosthelytize Inertia Exhale to harmonize A-tonal wind chimes fashioned from irons from the fire hanging from thin vines It’ll be fine, and for a peak at the designs, feed human nature satire to wildebeest pride, still its Nights of flight of the killer bees in the pate, Pagan prayers to catch a glimpse of fireflies in the flames A wild-style hermetic rage, minus the postage Rosetta stone gaze for those who count noses --only throws the focus All the dolo roughish knows is catacomb halitosis, muse alimony, falcon combing to balance out the allegory till its primordial olfactory factorial in cold stereo So it goes