Go! Fetch me fallacies,
Amyotrophic policies,
Speak Absinthian gallimaufries,
Fake gammadions for gallantries
Talk in a turbulently tumultuous tongue,
Pushing Panic buttons fore you eat dung,
Stop this Inquisitors’ masquerade,
Fetch me amethyst, bring me Jade
This makes as much sense as the invasion of Bucharest,
And the steam-punk galactagogues pumping her breast,
I’m chewing love letters written in hieroglyphics
And my unpatented claims to higher physics
And do not leave her alone in the woods, man,
For horribly horny hyenas might execute their plan,
Then these entrepreneurial dividends may remain unpaid,
And then you may die alone, unlaid
I have a bachelor’s degree in the zymurgy of barley,
You can fuck with Björk, I still like Bob Marley,
And her fertilized ovum is called a zygote,
You should’ve known that fore you put her in your throat
Religious homosexuals are redundantly whimsical,
(or whimsically redundant if I may be practical),
And you, young man, are a concoction of notions,
Drenched in exaggeration of unfulfilled emotions
But me, I’m the marquis of Kilimanjaro,
Where lies my Xanadu, beset with gardens of yarrow,
You may come there, and play with my braid,
And do bring some amethyst and if possible, some jade.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
- suraj sharma
- my mind, therefore, becomes this outstretched field of immeasurable serenity, which, although illuminated at angles awkward and unfamiliar to my eyes - is neither dark nor twilit. The strange lighting turns the vacuous foreplay of shadows chasing shadows into an euphoric, almost utopian feeling which is held in suspension as long as this configuration of appearances beckons the restlessness of reason ever forward into the uncharted hinterlands of imagination while at the same time compelling me to bless the lighting director.
0 comments:
Post a Comment