iNDY Pen Dance

[Slyde 0]

iNDY Pen Dance
Sometimes it seems like defense is a must, so we mount a good offense and go out and bust up the lives of the weakest who say they don’t trust how we think or we pray or we love or we trust.
Have no remorse. They’re a primitive lot; or they’ve gone off the course or they really don’t got what it takes to be free, what it takes to be hot, what it takes to be cool – young American snot.
Gotta be strong like a raptor out there in the yonder beyond her. Gotta have prayer to appease what the fathers and mothers who dare to release all they loved and they love to thin air.
Just got to soar; It’s their manifest destiny. Soaring is coasting but not in the west. Any fool can sit back on his laurels, attest that he kicked every ass and he passed every test and he hasn’t lost yet and he still takes a bet. When he finally rests in the west he’s the best ain’t he?
That’s how the duke or the bard or the prince or the clown or the school girl, even the Grinch, the maid and the butler won’t say but just winch when the masters arrive trailing work-a-day stenches at home with a gasp to a pipe or a pinch and a shot of elixir a moment to quench all the lies that they spouted today in an instant.
Pause and you’re trampled; heel you’re a dog. Pick up the pace or your neighbor will flog you with trite observations about the sweat hog in reception who thinks that the boss has gone lost in a fog of delusional excessive grog. She may be right as a rain in July on a hilltop or Illinois cabin’s wood fire to say that the boss is a foggy grog liar. She knows what she sees and she knows he’s a liar.
She knows he’s an idiot clawing at wind. She knows he’s a fat fucking slob who drinks gin. She knows he don’t care if she loses, he wins. Yet still every morning she meekly clocks in with the rent and the light bill and dad support late. It’s only a job and it isn’t that great but it’s all she can find and she barely can wait till it’s time to go home to her offspring. Her fate.
And what does she see and is anything real? What does she think that the fat slob will feel when his own great granddaughter or son takes the field with a football to shoot down his friend who won’t yield? He knows it is time right at moment can’t wait for a coach or a mom or a brother’s help, Ruth. Truth is it legal at altars in church? Truth is it something you knew at your birth? Truth is it anything bugs can describe when they’re eaten or stomped and they’re poisoned alive?
Dolittle told you to speak with your ant, and the flier with talons will provide you pants and a shirt lite and airy with big fancy belts and a buckle that brassily winds you in kelp. Float on young chickens who plummet but flap like the eagles you wear on your collar. Your lap is the place where your future and all of your past begin with your end and it’s all just a BLAST.
Stick it in pudding or stick it in mud. Bugs in both places are guided by some planetary decision that free will can’t boast but pretend you are in control of your own boat when the captain says every man stand tall and shout. Is it Regan or Mao? Are you talking about the good friendly young bad guy? Then know all you should if you want to go ask her aboard frigate wood.
Time is a curious moment in space that isn’t quite weightless and yet it’s the place when you wonder how long you might last in this place. Forever it seems is a practical goal. Whether or not you’re a goose or a foal you can sit, you can wonder and all you’ll have got is the breakfast you cooked for the waiter.
Hither comes dinner, wither comes lunch. Orbit the sun and give in to the hunch that the devil you shoulder is serving you brunch. He’s not a devil. He’s not even male. He’s not the uncle your aunt used to wail over caskets and baskets of pall mall percale. Okra and t-bone with grits is the recipe. Pull up a stool and enjoy a good rest to be closer to home where you know we all want to be holding our own out in front of the rest. You see?
Who are the rest that we never can please? Who are the judges that punish with ease? Who are the evil, the tricky, the sly? Who are the good or the bad? Do they cry? Shout they will hear you and jam down your throat every lie that you tell of the size on your boat in your ocean of honest imperial oats till the day you can’t honestly say how you vote.
For a behind there’s a bottle in front of me feeding the twins by the billions who die to see how many sugars are eaten by men who pee in marble halls with their frontal lobotomies. Women as judges ‘ shatter the scales when the jury gets cookies she baked as you wail that there is no blind justice for mice without tails in a county where hooters break more wind than gales.
Sing it in harmony; dissonance too. Bask in the whore moans that echo for you are the last of the moccasin snow-shoe-hoofed band who perform on a river boat balcony’s sand. Sing it forever. You have no choice. You did not choose to spout spinach. Your voice isn’t given or taken or modified now. And it isn’t worth hearing by earthworm or sow or by chickadee, road-runner, viper or sloth. Nobody’s listening. Let’s go fuck off.

A Peace Prize within minutes of Bombing the Moon. Coincidence? "Beware the Military Industrial Complex." You GO Ike!

[1969912 0]

I won't bother reading your crap, esp. if you won't bother to use paragraphs. Go away - again.

"Once we got to the point where twenty/something's needed a place on the corner that changed the oil in their cars we were doomed . . ."
-NickDG

[Slyde 0]

I won't bother reading your crap, esp. if you won't bother to use paragraphs. Go away - again.

[billvon 3,070]

>I won't bother reading your crap, esp. if you won't bother to use paragraphs.

No paragraphs, but some hidden meter. (Of course feel free to ignore this as well.)

==
Sometimes it seems like defense is a must,
so we mount a good offense and go out and bust
up the lives of the weakest who say they don’t trust
how we think or we pray or we love or we trust.

Have no remorse. They’re a primitive lot;
or they’ve gone off the course or they really don’t got
what it takes to be free, what it takes to be hot,
what it takes to be cool – young American snot.

Gotta be strong like a raptor out there
in the yonder beyond her. Gotta have prayer
to appease what the fathers and mothers who dare
to release all they loved and they love to thin air.

Just got to soar; It’s their manifest
destiny. Soaring is coasting but not in the west.
Any fool can sit back on his laurels, attest
that he kicked every ass and he passed every test
and he hasn’t lost yet and he still takes a bet.
When he finally rests in the west he’s the best
ain’t he?

That’s how the duke or the bard or the prince
or the clown or the school girl, even the Grinch
the maid and the butler won’t say but just winch
when the masters arrive trailing work-a-day stench-
es at home with a gasp to a pipe or a pinch
and a shot of elixir a moment to quench
all the lies that they spouted today in an instant.

Pause and you’re trampled; heel you’re a dog.
Pick up the pace or your neighbor will flog
you with trite observations about the sweat hog
in reception who thinks that the boss has gone lost
in a fog of delusional excessive grog.

She may be right as a rain in July on a hilltop or Illinois cabin’s wood fire
to say that the boss is a foggy grog liar.
She knows what she sees and she knows he’s a liar.

She knows he’s an idiot clawing at wind.
She knows he’s a fat fucking slob who drinks gin.
She knows he don’t care if she loses, he wins.
Yet still every morning she meekly clocks in

with the rent and the light bill and dad support late.
It’s only a job and it isn’t that great
but it’s all she can find and she barely can wait
till it’s time to go home to her offspring. Her fate.

And what does she see and is anything real?
What does she think that the fat slob will feel
when his own great granddaughter or son takes the field
with a football to shoot down his friend who won’t yield?

He knows it is time right at moment can’t wait for a coach
or a mom or a brother’s help, Ruth. Truth is it legal at altars in church? Truth is it something you knew at your birth?
Truth is it anything bugs can describe when they’re eaten or stomped and they’re poisoned alive?

Dolittle told you to speak with your ant,
and the flier with talons will provide you pants
and a shirt lite and airy with big fancy belts
and a buckle that brassily winds you in kelp.

Float on young chickens who plummet but flap
like the eagles you wear on your collar. Your lap
is the place where your future and all of your past
begin with your end and it’s all just a BLAST.

Stick it in pudding or stick it in mud. Bugs in both places are guided by some planetary decision that free will can’t boast
but pretend you are in control of your own boat
when the captain says every man stand tall and shout.

Is it Regan or Mao? Are you talking about the good friendly young bad guy? Then know all you should if you want to go ask her aboard frigate wood.

Time is a curious moment in space
that isn’t quite weightless and yet it’s the place
when you wonder how long you might last in this place.

Forever it seems is a practical goal.
Whether or not you’re a goose or a foal
you can sit, you can wonder
and all you’ll have got is the breakfast you cooked for the waiter.

Hither comes dinner, wither comes lunch.
Orbit the sun and give in to the hunch
that the devil you shoulder is serving you brunch.

He’s not a devil. He’s not even male.
He’s not the uncle your aunt used to wail over caskets and baskets of pall mall percale.

Okra and t-bone with grits is the recipe.
Pull up a stool and enjoy a good rest
to be closer to home where you know we all want to be
holding our own out in front of the rest. You see?

Who are the rest that we never can please?
Who are the judges that punish with ease?
Who are the evil, the tricky, the sly?

Who are the good or the bad? Do they cry?
Shout they will hear you and jam down your throat every lie
that you tell of the size on your boat
in your ocean of honest imperial oats
till the day you can’t honestly say how you vote.

For a behind there’s a bottle in front of me
feeding the twins by the billions who die to see
how many sugars are eaten by men who pee
in marble halls with their frontal lobotomies.

Women as judges ‘ shatter the scales
when the jury gets cookies she baked as you wail
that there is no blind justice for mice without tails
in a county where hooters break more wind than gales.

Sing it in harmony; dissonance too.
Bask in the whore moans that echo for you
are the last of the moccasin snow-shoe-hoofed band
who perform on a river boat balcony’s sand.

Sing it forever. You have no choice. You did not choose to spout spinach.

Your voice isn’t given or taken or modified now.
And it isn’t worth hearing by earthworm or sow
or by chickadee, road-runner, viper or sloth.
Nobody’s listening. Let’s go fuck off.
==

Anyone got a peanut?

[JohnRich 4]

Quote

I won't bother reading your crap...

If Bob Dillon sang it, it would be pretty good.
If Kafka read it as poetry, it would be pretty good.

But I still don't know what the heck it means.

[Krip 2]

Quote

Quote

I won't bother reading your crap...

If Bob Dillon sang it, it would be pretty good.
If Kafka read it as poetry, it would be pretty good.

But I still don't know what the heck it means.

Just go with the flow

It means He's Back

One Jump Wonder

[Slyde 0]

I am most flattered, Gentlemen.
Blews & bruise to brew.
Cheers!

A Peace Prize within minutes of Bombing the Moon. Coincidence? "Beware the Military Industrial Complex." You GO Ike!