satan's little trick on my brothers is whores

Be careful out there brothers . . . We who you end up sleeping with might be who you end up sleeping with . . . least you slip up with the town whore and end up tangled in her unfaithful death brothel . . . no need to worry horny dogs! you keep singing to the smelly sisters thier eve is dire. don't loose any blood over a gorgeous slut who bangs every tom, dick, harry, doug, jerry, slick, billy, jimmy, john, barry, terry, larry, garry, mark, clark, and you get the picture right. save yourself the trouble treat a rock like a rock. don't lick it. it's a damn rock brother. it's a hard stone: jagged, made for throwing, let it lay there and work. let the rock lay there and be a freaking rock. don't try and turn it into a marble statue. use it: knock some fool the hell out with it, throw it at something: hit a dog, bust out a cop car window, sling it through your boss's backdoor, whatever . . . but please let it lay there and take it like a freaking rock . . . don't try and change it. trust me. too many of you brothers have taken rocks you've found on the ground and tried to make them turn gold. why? oh brothers how i want to tell you what i know. i've fallen into a death brothel with satan's little fettish peeking in my weary heart . . . the best i can do is not care . . . which i've already decided to do without any relapses back to what formerly felt about satan's little plan for me. . . you sisters will never get the super poor kid in your den of treacherous lies and deception and maze of slut monkey tricks . . .

The Odds

"The Odds are Stacked against You! Young black fella like you! It's true. It's hard. It's hard out there. The System is against you. The Odds are stacked against you . . . " A retired navy pilot said that to me tonight. He was drunk off his asses - both his mouth and his foot. But He was a cool old fat white fart i suppose. He spoke very frank with me as we walked down the corridors of the Omni bridge on a cold, sleepy, weathered night in Atlanta Georgia - the city where i pull the grist out of many hours of sheepish borish evenings. This old curmudgeon couldn't stop smiling as he spoke openly and honest, wobbling, missing a step ever third footfall . I didn't mind the conversation. I needed it. I needed to hear what he said. Yet This is the last season for me as a security officer in this city and i think that's the most important piece of causual confabulation i i've ever been handed . . . still i move on with my life . . . i'll forget what that man said eventually and move on across the globe in my own nimble way regardless of what the odds are . . . the odds have never been great anyways - i suppose . . . and i'm still standing here, working, walking, spitting in the wind. i figure this last stretch of life will be the hardest but if youth has taught me anything, it's taught me resilensce. Alicia keys sings in my head tonight, "No one, No one, No one, No one, " and that's all i remember of that song. So no matter what the odds are old fat curmudgeon, no one or nothing will destroy my resilence . . .

To all my zigzag Brothers . . . don't ever talk to your cohorts in a normal speaking manner! Normal is a trick to keep you stupid. Your narrator has devised of a plan to trick the tricky tricksters at there own sloppy english language . . . by speaking to you my brothers in an apocalyptic tongue that only your earlobes may follow . . . come with me on this journey of journalism through American politics and nonsense . . . i promise you i will lead you astray! Come! Let us go to the disturbed . . .

Food

for lunch tonight i had an apple, milk duds, a glass of water, grits, eggs, cheese, delicious! delicious! delicious! it brought back memories of candy apple. pure homily pleasure for your denizen poet's breath to mull over & consider . . . for breakfast i had Caramels, kiwi, and saliva to suck on. . . what fasination i have with 'what else but food.' the things we put in our mouth without hesitations: unfettered, unhampered, gobble! gobble! lick! lick! little plump viginas with hairy urine drenched uteruses . . . in the rough. . . during thanksgiving, Uncle barry 'the blind smiler' took me to WalMart. i had know idea that 'the blind smiler' would exchange currency for many, many, many, buckets of shitty chitterlings (the cavier of Plebian culture) which my step father 'the lion' would have to clean so that the 'queen mother imperial' should liken to season it atop her burn burn oven with: peppers, apple vinegar, salt, all for her oldest boy who secretly hates her upbringing him the way she did in the backwater woods and he never visits enough anymore.
the joy of having cole slaw, chitterlings, hot sauce, potatoe salad, strikes your super poor child with cerebral palsy every time he thinks of such unfashionable eateries on thanksgiving . . . it tickles my giggles and i'll eventually need pshyco convulsive therapy just to jolt back from the land of the 'thunderbolt' and 'shitty gigglies.'
Listen to me my farty denizens. your narrator has never put anything in his mouth that he is ashamed of: from puffy pinky putty cats, to pretty toe feet, public hairs, chocolate girly burly girls, to vanilla blond bomb killers. all the way from stawberry Asian maidens to rasberry cajun haitians.
your dorky denizen narrator has always braved the last brownie from off the floor even and eaten dirt off the bottom of poor cecilian plates with cute italian chickens painted on the face up decoratives. for your eyes and my eyes brown, hazel, half mad blind eyes to squint and take witness.
i don't gain weight at all from this cursed intake of the mouth. bless it be! i don't get fatty fat fat either. not one ounce of the punky stuffing blemishes my godless body and leans pugnaciously on my pitiful African soul. yet to eat is to live and i don't eat what i'm not suppose to eat nor do i drink piss from a clear blue bottle . . . but when i tell a girl who i fancy dearly to put my lobe of life in her mouthy talker i expect her to play along and grab it with rough squeezers and take it into her quick fast sucker.
no questions asked. because your narrator likes it rough from time to time. and a time is ticking before the old fart disease catches up to him dearly and ruffles his feathers the wrong way with viagra . . . but thats not important anymore . . . eat! live! suck! eat some more! die! put it in your mouth! die some more!
well, what do you put in your mouth that makes you who you are my brothers and sisters. what trickles over your tongue into this plebian humanoid world and hearts us all so the way it does. . . feed me brothers. open your legs and feed me sisters. open your mouths and take me and i will take you. give me your beautiful words dear writers and poets and scholars. i lend you my ears. i lend you my soul. i lend you me. i give you my stomach and i will swallow the cold hard truth if it smartens me . . . i have to go now and finish my kiwi and caramel breakfast. . . a breakfast for champions my dear captains! as i sit with my legs crossed ready to go take a shit! shit! shit! shit! shit! shit! shit!