Mixmaster M.C. Escher of the Spastic Leroy Bejesus Bojangles 9 volt tongue or Scot-Irish Mofo Samurai in the Land of Mexican Machismo has 1 million fans on Facebook
For Sandra Begotka
by Quasimofo Snyder
i want to live how i want and be left the fuck alone,
you know, yoke me to a machine and watch me go…
as long as i’m not killing people WTH & WTF!
..like a hulking bum of bologna slapped to flabbergasted
recycled refurbished organic potato bread,,,
yo yo walking the dog with an ipod clodhopper grasshopper my bodycology
reeks of clean-pored gardenias getting stone-statued smiling ass drunk with forest gnomes listening to Ted Nugent.
o i c dome-headed pyramid schematics of Caucasian Negroes slaving happily
over their glowering towers of babel-fish freedoms…
i opted for the 3-on 4-off work week and slummed for 10 years saving for a sailing away on glass ship catamaran house-boat from Catalonia to Katmandu with every breed of cat for mates drinking Muscat wine, ha-ha! â€“and my walls will jingle
with the fleecey hides of those cat-scratch-fevermongers who don’t use the litter box… ..you’ll learn the hard way to take it easy with these catatonic contusions
harboring Castovalva Palm oil scents palm-reading in twisted bill
exchequer fluorescent sea .
…the magnifying glass can burn eyes molten with freakish shubunkin fervor.
Take the hand of the Valkyrie of Swirl-twirled Tribulation
and Hooka pipe epiphantom mosaic going easy on curves
of straight lines’ opposites attract similarities thru the center.
These murals multiply with the finesse of menstruating accoladers
shoplifting existential tampons.
How suckish! ..with my back up against the wall and a gun to my head she yells:
“L I V E M O T H E R F U C K E R!”.
i HATE to intrude into the bruising unobtrusive but we all caught
the whiff of Jesus when he turned glacier water into grapeshot strapping ’em down
to the spinning wheels. Praying flesh-eaters pry open cement coffins of regurgitating swans and cannibal horsemen . there is a meshing of the strong wills lifted by fire tongs and inter con nect the sketches of air and water and North-South flying seasons friendly skies above the fertilizer of day and night. Birds and fish of a scaled feather will fuck together with the right ascending regression of detail. What a liberation is this development of apropos marbles batting eyelashes at the cool miniscule.
Pop songs are supplemental ethics and since i’ve been up since the krak a toa
i will release this pent-up penthouse insomnia…
heat tempers the forge or burns the biscuit..,
so if i can’t reach real life goals in-between saboteurs i’ll go to the drive-way
hoops and dunk off step-ladders.
there’s something new to worry about every 3 seconds now, i’ve been on benadryl like toilet motion… life is learning how to live overwhelmed happily, the Facebook Friends will tell you this cause they are members of the fan of biological has 7 months of breath left. as i fall thru this rotten rook of a roof the nose-to-nose i fathom my purpose of many is to make people laugh at awkward moments to ease easel expectations. There are limits to squares and circles and butterflies and reptiles in the endless kringloop potted plant mountain observatory of your 24 hour grocery shop totem metamorphose dance down the aisles of insanity’s opacity suburb.
i will rant as predestination unravel embellishes by myself for myself
in background backgammon symbols crashing the cymbals and the sound
of one thimble claps as it clamps down threading thru frayed fabric of poetic verse vying on a new X-box 360 game called ‘Michael Vick’s Underground Dog-Fighting Competition’…velcro and buttons achieve new space/depth with cubic intersections.
knots of ants in out of control concentric mind’s rinds, the bands of bonds ripple puddles into still-life worlds. Reflection of the sphere is a perspiring spiraling perspective, the dewdrop eye ogles concave convex magic ribbon cubes in double planetoid polaroids.
Heed the tetrahedral collage-poet that is i, oh fellow mofos! Order and chaos gravitates into croc-pothead stars with flatworm churning of other another worlds. There’s nothing doin’ in a stairway archway acid-trippin high and low. I want to wake from dreams and make them the grilled cheese sandwiches of my imagination’s famished appetite. lol.
So curl up into our stratocaster house of online therapy degrees; you need to spread those tool shed legs…for the coffee table you’re gonna refinish in the same hue as Van Goh’s bedroom.
Shed your skin if it’s the skin of sin enveloped in fork tongue licked fur…a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
At the foot of the Sphinx, me and my muse have asphixiation sex in sleeping bags…
with her i go with pie instead of cake.
Drawing hands-on artists jump start me outta funk with wild balcony Coca Cola seaside town galleries of gallish demeanor which is the mean or the niceties of perpetual energy waterfalls.
Can i find a virtual architect for these ass-end decent peephole banter of the word-smith banty rooster?
If only the imbeeseals could frequin’ spell!
The observatory of my cranium can only root-out this fanciful pretentious pretension:
“i keep track of Oscar Winners by reading the back-cover synopsisses
of follow-up B-movies.”