Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Stop yer caterwaulin’ bawlin,’
yer back-scratchin’ circle jerkin,’
readin' so many turds on a stick.
Oh poetry! Poetry! in glass cases,
bobbing on a sea of shit, it is it!

Stop yer cryin whinin’ pinin.’
You still got mountains to blast,
black crude to shoot in yer veins,
six thousand channels of crack,
whole populations to thin out.
Yer tribe is winnin’, get on it.
Breathe the fuckin’ fresh air.

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I'm feelin' pretty good this morning. So inspired by all the cool things I read on my screen this morning. It's wonderful.

This is the worst P.O.S. "poem" I've ever written. It's wonderful . . .

sea of shit, poetry, sea of shit
it's a wonder anyone ever wrote
one word or one poem
that wasn't approved of
by the boards and syndicates
of this world, as Burroughs
called them, "don't let them
know what we are doing"
'don't let that Coke-Cola thing out"
or for that matter the sycophants

... gracias but I always had a sort of problem with the blonde-thing...!

keep writing, amigo!!

Me too! Thanks Arcadia. Yes, R, someone had to break through the gray walls...

I guess I was in a shitty mood last week. It happens. I guess it's dangerous to spend too much time over at, ahem, that other place.