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Click hereExcuse me while I mosh,
bumrush the blue grey
white shirt black tie beehive soul
bottom line bludgeoned squadron,
yell Purple Haze through the
transparent transaction mist
at the top of my White Russian
marinated lungs.
It's just about time now...
They line up in nihilist rows,
a perfect triangle target
of easily knocked over ideals.
And I a Big Lebowski hallucination
curled in fetal position
ready to roll
through an alley of can can dancers
toward the terrified lineup.
Excuse me while I riot,
though not through sheer mass,
but with the right
rhethorical sledgehammer
swinging to smash
any delicate defence.
The porcelain store elephant
somehow taking the chill,
and coming out on top,
for the rest of us sinners.
Because I know I can
screw with their perceptions
and launch a screwball swing
to strike and score,
and watch the scattered pins
perform glorious parables.
Then return to my seat,
smug and satisfied.
Mark it, Dude.
Then abide.
You have touched the special dude-like place in my heart just at the mention of the almighty White Russian. Even if the rest of the poem were to really suck, which it does NOT, I would love it just for that drink.
but seriously Liar - how do you do it? You are the only person I've read who's poetry I adore so consistantly.
(thermometer left at default and does not reflect my vote, just in case you hadn't guessed that already :D )
this peice leaves you with that sweet taste of salt and the giddness of adrenaline after any good mosh. Love the feel it gives. Damn now I need to find a mosh pit lol.
A wild, headlong linguistic tumble! I love the chances you take with poetry.
white russian early in the morning. The big Ski would
love this dude.