SkeeK
The Original, Rock n' Roll Doggie, VIP PASS
A deep pounding.
The loss of inspiration.
Insipid.
Lurging through the empty masses of wilted logic.
Putrid.
What is it, then, that makes us tick?
Twelve to four.
Seventeen over.
By and by something will drop.
Something has been sent.
No one wants to.
Send a sign.
In the fortress of the king/the bards and minstrels they did cough/before they yawned and nodded off.
Twice in my life.
Catastrophic.
But then, who doesn?t?
When?
To chase a million stars.
Speaking only from inexperience let me inform this trinity of overachievement, in somewhat broken terms.
Chosen.
Bombing over infinity toward an end.
Twelve to four?
The burgeoning life in the marshlands of the southern plateau.
Try as I might, and I might not, I try too hard to tear away inside myself.
I hear the song about the soaring birds.
The one that goes.
Off with a bang.
On with a feather.
Twice now, but never enough.
Tell that to my girlfriend.
Threads.
Woven to the backs of friends whose burdens fall to ash.
A passionate sin.
Fury drives the horses down, screaming as they fall.
Into Destiny.
Near the beginning.
Far from television.
Into the nexus of stilted triumph.
And where?
Tell us now the thoughts.
The ingenuity that cracked.
Slip into the back.
Cry along the front.
Drug dealer on the side.
Toppled together without ever knowing why.
Two that touch as only one can.
Best value.
Best service.
What?s the deal?
That?s the deal.
Try it!
One?s as good as two in the business of playing the patterns of yearning.
Nonsense?
Face steeled against the lurid call of night.
Feet torn by wicker birds.
Plato tells us of the soul.
Turned toward the coming dawn.
Feel the rain through the darkness.
Plato ate a potato.
The northernmost semblance of unity.
Squeezing out the frank and turgid water.
The wiles of seven centuries of deceit.
Find me and scold me.
Scald me with whimpers.
Drown me in benign unpleasantry.
And what?s more.
I forgot to turn off the oven.
The roast will toast.
Dancing in a wiry, sticky way.
Much like in those old movies.
With James Stewart.
With Oliver Cromwell.
The lacking parent vows to expose yesterday.
Tomorrow draws on today.
Swirls down, away, with an unpleasant singe.
My tongue is missing.
Missing you like yesterday, but warning you of triumphs to succeed in earning.
Didn?t your mother tell you?
Deaf as a bat, blind as a loon.
Off his sofa.
Mr. Teddle is coming for dinner.
The most powerful word in this sundry language?
Last week a dolphin.
This week nothing.
Nothing to do but watch the leaning child.
Four letters.
Not of that sort, anyway.
Twists and knots.
Groans in leaps of agonizing.
Will the phone ring?
Haven?t we already been over this twice?
welve to four.
And not a second too soon, neither, not knowing what?s in store after the party?s over.
Depressed.
By illogicity.
By random inanity.
Profuse insanity.
By the river a dog drilled me with his placid eye.
The lake rolled over and fell asleep.
Dreamed of nothing more than everything else.
Rhymes with an ark?s whitebird.
To what end?
To what beginning?
Never forget those who wish to remember.
Why?
Angry?
Feel a leering jester.
Coughing on about stocks.
Chained to you in every way but presence.
Past a peppered leaf.
Jots of drooping, falling.
Tearing me apart.
Soft skin.
Cool breeze.
Lips.
Torture.
The masterstroke.
Shed your insecurities at the door.
Don?t dream of better days.
None exist.
Except now.
You are gone.
Not gone, away.
Not here though.
Anywhere but here.
Enough games.
Cognizance grinds to a halt.
Dull ache.
Missing the point.
Sharp and saturating, painful to the core.
Heart.
Beat you to it.
Enough trolling the recesses of misted hope.
LOVE.
And truer words were never spoken.
The loss of inspiration.
Insipid.
Lurging through the empty masses of wilted logic.
Putrid.
What is it, then, that makes us tick?
Twelve to four.
Seventeen over.
By and by something will drop.
Something has been sent.
No one wants to.
Send a sign.
In the fortress of the king/the bards and minstrels they did cough/before they yawned and nodded off.
Twice in my life.
Catastrophic.
But then, who doesn?t?
When?
To chase a million stars.
Speaking only from inexperience let me inform this trinity of overachievement, in somewhat broken terms.
Chosen.
Bombing over infinity toward an end.
Twelve to four?
The burgeoning life in the marshlands of the southern plateau.
Try as I might, and I might not, I try too hard to tear away inside myself.
I hear the song about the soaring birds.
The one that goes.
Off with a bang.
On with a feather.
Twice now, but never enough.
Tell that to my girlfriend.
Threads.
Woven to the backs of friends whose burdens fall to ash.
A passionate sin.
Fury drives the horses down, screaming as they fall.
Into Destiny.
Near the beginning.
Far from television.
Into the nexus of stilted triumph.
And where?
Tell us now the thoughts.
The ingenuity that cracked.
Slip into the back.
Cry along the front.
Drug dealer on the side.
Toppled together without ever knowing why.
Two that touch as only one can.
Best value.
Best service.
What?s the deal?
That?s the deal.
Try it!
One?s as good as two in the business of playing the patterns of yearning.
Nonsense?
Face steeled against the lurid call of night.
Feet torn by wicker birds.
Plato tells us of the soul.
Turned toward the coming dawn.
Feel the rain through the darkness.
Plato ate a potato.
The northernmost semblance of unity.
Squeezing out the frank and turgid water.
The wiles of seven centuries of deceit.
Find me and scold me.
Scald me with whimpers.
Drown me in benign unpleasantry.
And what?s more.
I forgot to turn off the oven.
The roast will toast.
Dancing in a wiry, sticky way.
Much like in those old movies.
With James Stewart.
With Oliver Cromwell.
The lacking parent vows to expose yesterday.
Tomorrow draws on today.
Swirls down, away, with an unpleasant singe.
My tongue is missing.
Missing you like yesterday, but warning you of triumphs to succeed in earning.
Didn?t your mother tell you?
Deaf as a bat, blind as a loon.
Off his sofa.
Mr. Teddle is coming for dinner.
The most powerful word in this sundry language?
Last week a dolphin.
This week nothing.
Nothing to do but watch the leaning child.
Four letters.
Not of that sort, anyway.
Twists and knots.
Groans in leaps of agonizing.
Will the phone ring?
Haven?t we already been over this twice?
welve to four.
And not a second too soon, neither, not knowing what?s in store after the party?s over.
Depressed.
By illogicity.
By random inanity.
Profuse insanity.
By the river a dog drilled me with his placid eye.
The lake rolled over and fell asleep.
Dreamed of nothing more than everything else.
Rhymes with an ark?s whitebird.
To what end?
To what beginning?
Never forget those who wish to remember.
Why?
Angry?
Feel a leering jester.
Coughing on about stocks.
Chained to you in every way but presence.
Past a peppered leaf.
Jots of drooping, falling.
Tearing me apart.
Soft skin.
Cool breeze.
Lips.
Torture.
The masterstroke.
Shed your insecurities at the door.
Don?t dream of better days.
None exist.
Except now.
You are gone.
Not gone, away.
Not here though.
Anywhere but here.
Enough games.
Cognizance grinds to a halt.
Dull ache.
Missing the point.
Sharp and saturating, painful to the core.
Heart.
Beat you to it.
Enough trolling the recesses of misted hope.
LOVE.
And truer words were never spoken.
