Prime Time

 Then the Rod of Ruin on a hot trod for the foxy Mox Lotus proxy, releaces all her toxins. Who could surpass the grimed limerick sublime, making no incense but sanity, what waned in wanted vain torment: "Give us something fresh and newsworthy!" The smallest violin and the greatest contrabass could not surmise nor confuse! For in the zone, there is but God and Me... 

As you feel depleted and think of letting go, for it is done, and enough silver fell from the lips. The true artistry raises its hips and head, to tread the same fray, and make old things muse. The Avant garde, the Decadent, the spoiled the frightened, the negligent. Inteligentia and plebs together, what dost it matter, the names the street -- only the music remains same in silence! 

Sing, ye mockingbird, croak ye whiteraven! Make a pedestal onto the fiery furnace and cast mighty shadows. What is light without darkness, what is Joy without grief. Pain so close to pleasure, I could cleave from Aghast to frenzy and back to zelous malice and depravity. Still I would find you there, with open arms and warm embrace, like a mother gathering home... 

Dance ye wild horse, scarecrow of old, headless maddened cackophony -- Jacko-lantern; sunkissed pony, in the ivory inventories of Heaven and its Heavenly glory. To tell the truth in lies, make conflict and beg for trouble! What better taste, than the fools arron foiled, to show the mirror on the nude emperors faces, as the multitudes come to glimpse yet another jester. 

Nothing to give, but the blind fury of keys on the board, as dastardly the words engulf all pride and shame. In the zone, there basked in the shine and darkness; balls of thunder and a hailstorm cock. Let the clock tick its time, non-stop; the shock out of stock blocked out the rock in my path, as I sundered the knock on the razor of Ocham, but the Philistines choked! 

Hewing through the mayhem, thus said complaints, then people fare well or worse, the Samson, the Delila, Lilac in the delight as I blight nightmares out of your minds eye and hearts sighs. Grant me your ears and a moment of your time, I shall rain arrows of Loving-Kindness out on your deathbed, rise up and stay Benign. Kind is the word, bestows, mends and rites!! 

Coining the crescent moon and toiling the northen stars as sheep, what could the broken Jar of clay spirit in St. Hughs hue for the blues and rue for the loose. The End is always brighter, as the starting point is dark, embarking through the hounds of Baskerville, no Holmes could moriarty, then feuding for the lan party and stringed puppet brawl and gray Merchants Fall. 

Womitting words of compassion, omitting ointments, retractions, fashioned in the integral scent of discord and gourded courtings of the lost hord, what found itself in Havoc, my Lord. How much can one singe at the tip of its tongue, while out of bounds inside Me; Myself and I, as the "I Am and I Will" shall prevail once more onslaught on shores of Yore!