Thursday, September 12, 2019

Relapsed of Judgment

Words go Hail-Marry, harrowing ordinary;
tinkering the geared Hulks of shipped ferry.
The bulk of the road to perdition sanction vary;
lo Moral - low your self-esteem to pick cherries.


I don't want no @ tensions nor # tags as I $"&* myself;
up my own hoisted pretard and down the rabbit hole.
Rewarding the regal retards or their revenued shiest-health:
she ain't got no shelth, to rest her head on an arm nor pole...


Then shots are virgins and water is vodka; russians are black,
hey some cool gimmick gauged the eyes to a sight to behold.
I scold the shoelace of some olden days Bold young-blond hack;
who had a left cheek crack, to "but" in the middle of my sententse cold!


I still have to stance my ground standing up for the nearest corner;
edgy slurs are important and self-evident. Some kinds of proverbs -- comerce
must go yonder, to sniff the roses, and I wonder. Do the hummingbirds commence
with the audition, for the next fox in the henhouse or the sheep-clothed wolf trance?


I chipped a dale in a block of flat tires to dairy the diary of some lost archon;
who wanted to die along a Yew tree as the arrow seeped through his sap.
My talk was cheep and my good looks where free -- flabbergasted parchments
lawsuited themselves to kingdoms yet to cum on their Mont Blanc faces some crap!


Don't want to be free to, as free from contradiction is so much more demanding.
#Metoo wanted to showcase Mewto in Motown and have some new improved toons.
Some pokemons there siding with bakugan and digimon, to have a new underhanding
of misgendered faeces. As my diction had contractions to hump the transmission goons.


Vehement prayers obfuscated a shroud of doubt about all the things what a boyscout
should say and do, when Jesus is hitch-hiking on the road, and he drives by a boycot
in his Maserati to lament how wrong and sullen the youth of these days have been rot.
The lot was gathered by Nimrod crossing the thingers behind the back to say: "Why not!"


My palette has no other colors, than camo and obliette, as I rile my victims into my lair;
the dungeon of Chimeras and despair; the den of Vipers and sucking upper class maidens.
The iron spark in their eyes melt my spine into a thrall-gloom, to sway from any dare,
what a ice-cream inside a bread crust could hope inside the oven to bun Sniders.


How many judges can atone the rent of rending a spirit for a pretence or a trend;
terminating the timber for the termite and seasoning the deal with some broken ass
ornaments about some crazy shit, somebody mulled out of his ardent armaments;
a dentist could not pretend to put a dent in an hour or two nor arm himself with brass!!


The spitfire of Carnegie Halled carnage, marking the graves of hallmarked marksmen;
who had a Mark or less to loose in the bible. What ever was  not on the side of St. Paul then;
which lever could have been projected inside the gospel to choir the: "New-Zen"!
Yorkers had to embark on some doghunt to rabbid bite some digestive traits and loose chin!!


My LAN cast a huge five-dimensional shadow what broke the fourth wall;
The IP-man had to call the extortionist to racket some gremlins out of the joy-stick.
My mouse is still scared and took some ducttape to eraze the pained close call;
The motherboard was feeling lonely and the PCU was playing hat-tricks...


The pentagram had 9 mg of Nickel and a dime to sell shorties and hot shots for ironing
Works. My microscopic scope of effort dwarfed at the rainbow-skating sanctions dichotomy.
I had a lobotomy to lobby the vultures with the werewolfs as my head was spiraling
down the drain, for I didn't put the collar on. I pulled my legs up and akimboed "Eo ipso Phoney"


Relapsed in this fiendish nightmare, I stared down the ravine to steal a kiss back -- even by death.
It met my sight with awaited hisses and snarls. As the wails grew louder in the gourge -- wealth
was not an option, but a superseded stupendous opinions, opining stagnant fragrances, scathed
by the prejudices, judiciary hearings had to turn a blind eye to. And what a sight indeed out-wrathed!!

2 comments:

  1. Oh what ever must I do, to find a good critic who would in the spirit of Nietzsche, write a critique on this... Just take your hammer and smite thee.

    ReplyDelete