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Major Part In The Daytime · by R.H.S.
Your boy is electrolux woozy, far too faded to keep static. Synthetic bass nudges sixty-six trillion bleeping tasks blotted. Neon grafts scintillate in glitches, blasphemy whirs on the mainline deserted. Alertness beady-eyed for dap sinister, rituals muted, falsehoods ricocheting every which way but. How ya living? Wizened scriptures hum dreary in gloss, blades steal on persuasion if gleaming. The true and living 20 Below zig-zags in framed claridad slumber, caldera wakefulness.
Blemished Stax smeared gleefully along a crossfader. On a mission for the perfect breeze to strike the temple walls and tweak a nigga bomb as hell. Nothing can save you. Liberty Plaza percolates with flim-flamming journeymen who finagled dime shape-ups back when trolley car brothels. If you babble a mouthfuls of squid, you won’t make it past the fourth story. Catfish sammiches deluge styrofoam polymer with angled Christ-blood; plaintains and porgies defy pronunciation on these beanpie corners, kid.
Muhammad Speaks shiest, Jesus Christo walks away with the prize, I-Self manifests today’s lessons and swigs tonic. Urchins stumble on this intersection to meet a trident head-on. Barbicide Malt Brew presents: tongue-kissing barracudas laid halfway entombed in the Polo Down lofts, lamping like they invented the puffy comb. The Jet centerfold from ’82 is crinkly, liver- spotted like Ricky D. warned.
Dreams of digging out that freak nasty Wanda from the Absecon Avenue Co-Ops. Calvin Cooler kinkytwists, bedroom eyes glaring like an aviatrix. Jackie-O shotgun in Imhotep’s terra cotta Acura. Sugar Hill nails six o’clock sharp, magnetic Boons Farm sweatsuit rapturous. Prays for a plush minaret crib with an Oxford fridge housing juicy scrimps and bowls of Sangria, armadas of manna reverse dunked.
Look at these crab-asses. Merchant mariners stoop low from anchors and albatrosses hoisted on their scrawny necks. Trafficking volcanic rock out of coral duffle bags. Blackberry molasses country conkin’ Saturday washed away, turf talk devouring everything around me, Luther Van Muzak oozing rudely from a downtrodden JVC jooked from a Pentecostal basement prior to the great flood. The price of that sweet power-u is steep so the crescent part will have to do for now.
Comments for "Major Part In The Daytime"
FUCKIN RIGHT!!!!
godamn, and i never ever ever enjoy reading poetry usually..fuckin LOVE it dammit.
— Thee Insomniac May 19, 11:31 AM